


Four and Twenty Blackbirds

by GalaxyAqua



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Virtual Reality, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Found Family, M/M, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, but recovery is also real and possible, trauma isn't cute it's real and damaging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2019-09-02 15:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16789939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyAqua/pseuds/GalaxyAqua
Summary: Shinguuji had lived through far too many things that were supposed to kill him.(A ghost story unravels, the haunted learn to live beyond just coping, and tomorrow will always be another day to heal.)





	1. Sing a Song of Sixpence

**Author's Note:**

> biting the bullet with this korekiyo recovery fic so please bear with me and please remember to tread carefully, there is a lot of talk about death and allusions to the events in canon (as a fabricated reality)

_“You have corrupted me, Korekiyo.”_

Her voice existed without conviction.

Light and incandescent, that was how she appeared – feet barely touching earth, eyes without reflection. Porcelain and otherworldly. They were souls divided, where once they were whole.

Imbalance. Disequilibrium. There was a hollowness being carved out of him, a deep cavity swelling beneath his ribs, and the longer she stood before him, the wider it spread.

Her lips inherited the crimson of the stop sign that loomed over her dainty figure. It struck a shadow through her face. She smiled at him gently. A formality.

_“Do you understand? Will you speak with me on this matter, Korekiyo, or have you pledged your silence in grieving? Is your voice still mine, and my voice yours? I have many questions for you, but you do not seem eager to answer. It… saddens me. That you used to be such a thoughtful little brother, yet now everything is different.”_

Her translucence did an immense disservice to her beauty, he noted distantly. She was like a faded photograph. A mere vision of what she once was. There was no warmth here. She was a candle on the cusp of flickering out.

Ah, but he shouldn’t linger on such trivial grievances. Such minor, unimportant grievances.

Truthfully, she was not quite familiar to him anymore, in the way that one becomes not quite familiar with a friend after years of separation. In the way that unnerved him, ever so slightly, and had his fingers scraping at the seams of his clothing – invisible, ungraspable under-stitching, he discovered – desperate for something to hold onto. To ground him.

Though he had reached crossroads, he did not choose a direction.

He slowed, he stopped, he found himself at a standstill.

_“You know, you have dishonored me gravely, Korekiyo. Because of you, I have died twice.”_

Her voice existed without conviction, it was true, but every word was cutting all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out suddenly, as if the words were being plucked from his throat, “I— am— so— sorry—”

_“You have tarnished my memory, so that nobody will remember me as I was. Yet you believe your words alone can heal me. Isn’t that right?”_

When she moved, it was with a step so light it could be mistaken for a droplet of rain falling to the footpath. Perhaps it was. Perhaps, he was seeing what he wanted to see, and not what was actually there. Her laughter was so sweet.

 _“My dear, fairy tales are just fairy tales. Sleeping Beauty… Snow White… Fitcher’s Bird… yes, all fairy tales. The dead cannot be rescued from their fate, no matter how much you may wish for it. Flesh unable to be restored as broken glass is unable to be mended…”_ She sighed, ever gentle. “ _Yet somehow_ , _despite all this, you still chose to destroy me trying.”_

“I know, I know what I did. I am deeply sorry, solemnly, I cannot even fathom how much,” his breath trembled in the misty air, and for a second, his lungs swelled with grief and stuttered. “I—you– for you– I– I haven’t the words to tell you how sorry I am. You are right, no apology would be enough, no amount of offerings or incense, not even the finest— no, I will give you everything I have left, it is all I can do–”

_“Shh, Korekiyo, be still.”_

He obeyed. Her arms crossed, baring the veins beneath her skin. She looked so much smaller than he remembered, so much younger than she should be.

Of course, it made sense.

She was dead, after all.

She was immortalized youth, for she died far too young and he had been living without her.

Allowing the despicable to live and the innocent to die, he was not certain this world understood the concept of justness at all.

 _“Be calm, but do not bite your tongue.”_ She told him. _“You aren’t the child you used to be. There is no need to retract completely. Speak if you must. Calmer, this time. Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you.”_

“I… understand. I—I’m so… sorry… please believe me, I am. That is all that I am. Sorrow embraces me, completely.”

 _“I know. You have always been wrenchingly sincere in your apologies.”_ She smiled delicately, but not unkindly. Fleetingly. The difference was bare but vital. _“Since we’ve managed to come this far, let me ask you a question, dear brother. I did not come to scold you, after all.”_

“Of course. Anything.”

She clasped her hands together, head tilting to the side.

_“Tell me, are you happy now?”_

“No,” his answer came immediately, unhesitatingly and without fail. Of this, he was certain. “I… cannot. I will not be happy any longer. Not after everything I have done. Everything I… chose to do.”

 _“I would like it if you were happy.”_ She whispered, airy as the breeze. Her lips quirked upwards again, the curve of her smile pleasant in its faintness. _“Can you do that for me? Redeem yourself, so that I may rest peacefully. That is what I desire most.”_

“I can’t.”

_“Korekiyo.”_

“I cannot…!” He gritted his teeth, nails digging into his thighs. “I, I told you I can’t…! This is for your sake, don’t you understand? I vow to sacrifice a lifetime of happiness in exchange for your forgiveness, f-for ruining you, dishonoring you… for… what you had to become.”

 _“I see.”_ She tapped her chin idly, looking contemplative. _“You speak of what I have become, but I am nothing but ashes, aren’t I? The one you call sister now, she and I are not the same.”_

“I know that. However, I implore you to please accept my offer, I cannot bear to think of my undoings any longer… please… it is my last request of you, as selfish as that may be.”

_“Your request?”_

“My happiness, for your forgiveness.”

 _“I cannot.”_ She replied, clicking her tongue. _“I want you to be happy, Korekiyo. Even if you have lost all hope, even if you loathe yourself as you do, I want you to be happy. Can you do that for me?”_

“I cannot.” He answered.

_“Then I will not forgive you.”_

* * *

He was not the first in his family to die.

It seemed fitting, factually. Just as one death would reap mourning, yet too many deaths would be summed up into a tragic statistic — it was convenient. It was natural.

Indeed, Shinguuji Korekiyo was the youngest child, so it was only natural he would live the longest life. Natural that he would be taught to prepare for it. Taught to grieve before he was taught to embrace the world and its wonders, taught death before he had truly learned to live.

There was simply no question to it.

He had this duty, this image to uphold. He owed the ones that raised him to be callous, to be unwavering, to be powerful. For it was his birthright and expectation to inherit, carrying on as the irrefutable heir to the Shinguuji name as tradition dictated — his family’s legacy in the palms of his fickle hands.

Yet _heir_ and _legacy_ were far too heavy words for such brittle bones to hold.

It was a given that neither term had ever seemed to fit him right, not as his father used to insist.

Long and laboriously, he would prattle on, “Korekiyo, you must be noble. You must be strong. You are my son. Straighten your back. Do not show any weakness.”

His father would often be disappointed with him but, of course, all his advice was in hopes of bettering him, Shinguuji had always known that much.

“You are too sensitive. Too vulnerable,” his father often declared, a critic for his own good. “You mustn’t let others know what you are thinking. I can’t protect you all the time, you know.”

He would ruminate over his youngest child’s imperfections whenever he saw the chance. If it wasn’t the length of his hair or hushed tone of his voice, it was his wiry frame, it was his reclusive personality, or the fairness of his complexion.

Shinguuji had long since learned not to disagree with his father. He knew he must always be grateful for his blood ties.

So perhaps it was by nature, yes, that he was not to be the first in his family to die, and that he was always being prepared to carry the torch alone, but the truth never became easier to swallow.

He was an observer, not an actor. Rooted offstage, lurking in shadows, confined to play watcher. That was his role. To look on and observe.

To learn. To inherit.

The youngest child, left to watch his family pass one after another before him, much sooner than even nature should have allowed. Too quick, their lives flew too short. Death was a pendulum that swung too fast, struck too soon.

For his father, it was a landslide. He was an archeologist. Highly intelligent, a respectable man. It was an accident, supposedly. An unbelievable tale coming from a third-hand, fourth-hand source. He never said goodbye.

For his mother, it was, tragically, heartbreak. Then it was overdose. She couldn’t stand the sight of her own children, with the pale golden eyes of their father. Shinguuji found her on the bathroom floor. She never said goodbye.

For his sister, it was an incurable sickness. She almost died peacefully, in a state of peace their parents never found in death, but her last words, _god,_ they would haunt him forever.

“I wish it was you, instead.” She had whispered, her tissue paper fingers scraping against his knuckles like claws. “I wish it was you.”

For Shinguuji Korekiyo, it was _Danganronpa._

Or at least, it should have been.

* * *

It wasn’t.

It should have been.

It wasn’t.

It should have been.

It wasn’t.

* * *

Shinguuji would not deny it, he applied for _Danganronpa_ to die.

It wasn’t a difficult decision to make.

Living, dying, it was all so insignificant in the end. He wasn’t going to be missed. He was replaceable. Perishable.

Oh, he was not delusional, he was simply at ease with the thought of not being alive. So much so that he welcomed it.

Perhaps it was because he was alone with a family that were nothing more than corpses and ashen remains. Perhaps it was because his interactions with people breathing were little more than surface-level, skin-deep. Perhaps it was because he had long since tired of small talk, tired of the shallow frivolities of his peers, tired of trying so hard and always – inescapably, inevitably – amounting to nothing.

Loneliness was a poison that wanted to consume him, and it was almost too easy to let it do so. He didn’t want to fight it, he only begged it would take him painlessly, but even the feeling of suffering painlessly became too numb to bear.

He had sought physicality once or twice, before he had considered dying to be the quickest antidote, but he had despised it.

Shallow frivolities at their finest came with the giggling girls that showed him off like a trophy, forcing their tongues down his throat for material snapshots, and sweaty boys that would tug on his long hair, press palms into the valley of his back pretending he was prettier — in fact, it was likely they disillusioned themselves with entirely inaccurate fantasies about him.

His physique, his appearance, it was all such a vague, undefined concept that he could almost forgive them, but he’d never stay with people like that. They’d fall apart too quickly. He understood their fears, but didn’t sympathize.

Sympathy, Shinguuji decided, belonged to situations he could not control. Death, for example, was deservant of sympathy. He, for example, was not.

Drenched in his isolation, finding no comfort from being used, he wanted an out from this miserable life. He needed an out.

It was. Hopeless. Everything was hopeless.

He was abandoned. Worthless. Pitiful vermin, yes, everything he did was despicable and wasteful and cumbersome, and oh, he was so much better than the world of rotten humanity, yet so much worse.

He could not reach anyone.

Nobody would make any effort to reach him, either.

Disconnected. Alone.

He was a nameless face in the crowd. Never grew out of the black sick mask that made him look far too pale.

That, he had worn for his sister, because kids used to point at the tubes in her nose, and it was his duty to protect her. To make her happy. Always.

He failed, _naturally._

It was _natural_ , because he was a failure in and of itself. His parents had said so, his sister had said so, his teachers never said it but he could see it in their eyes, even his superficial acquaintances got tired of him and moved on to the next and the next; he was disposable.

A failure.

With no place to belong, even if he scraped what remained of himself into the mold of a functional human being (that could garner any shred of sympathy, how terribly manipulative of him, how pathetic), he had nothing to attach himself to this world, anymore.

So he could die. Fine with dying, he could go whenever he wished. He had come to terms with that.

But not completely.

Humanity had the vice of greed, and that was what started to take hold of him. Possessed him.

The more he thought about it, the more he wanted.

It was an ugly desire to die in violence, to die with an impact, to die the way he deserved to, which was not a way he could accomplish alone.

He had needed a death that was guaranteed, a death that would exceed that of his father, his mother, his sister. It was his burden. His duty.

He had lived a life failing everything he ever set his mind to.

He might as well succeed at something, he thought.

* * *

“If there is one thing you could do before you die, what would that be?”

His sister had watched him intently when he had asked, once upon a time, before deeming the question viable to answer. “Join _Danganronpa_ , of course.”

“You are so fascinated by that show, _nee-san_.” He had remarked, continuing to peel the mandarin for her, finding relief in the way she smiled when prompted to speak further on her favorite series.

“I find it quite beautiful in a tragic way. It makes me wish I had a talent as well,” she replied. “It would be nice to be good at something. Maybe extraordinary! I wish I could be special, you know? To play such an extraordinary game.”

“Even though it’s a killing game.” He handed her the unpeeled fruit, keeping the edges out of his voice.

“And my life’s just a dying game,” she muttered, expression downcast. Her hands cupped the mandarin slices, pressing them between her palms. “We live in a world full of games, Korekiyo. Somebody has to play them.”

“ _Danganronpa_ is not short of volunteers.”

“Well, I suppose not,” she nibbled the top of one of the slices. “It doesn’t matter, in any case. They’d never accept me because I’m sick. But I want to live in a fictional world, too… That way, I wouldn’t be able to die, you know? And I’d meet so many people and make so many friends…”

There came a revelation.

Smited by her fate too early, she was not allowed to be extraordinary, but he could change that.

Tactically, he could draw from his own memories, blur them with hers, bundle up his agony to unleash at auditions, beg them to bring her back to life or allow him the same agony until his own life’s end — the possibilities were countless.

He could rewrite her story. One she was never able to live.

He could do what she never could. She could live her dream through him, vicariously.

(He was wrong. He was wrong.)

She had loved _Danganronpa,_ so he had pretended he did too. He had pretended he didn’t retreat to the bathroom after it was done, shaken to the bone and crying at the cruelty of it all.

(He didn’t know what to do. The days just seemed so bleak. He could vanish and nobody would notice. Nobody would care.)

Despite his want for death, he hated seeing people die.

Especially when they had so much potential to live.

His sister wanted to join them. Her last act of life, and she wanted to throw it away like that.

And she didn’t even get the chance.

(It should have been him.)

Yes, he would apply for _Danganronpa_ , because his sister would have wanted it. He didn’t care what happened as long as he ended up dead.

 _Danganronpa_ lived for tragedies like that.

* * *

He remembered filling in his application form while lying on the tiles of the bathroom floor, hoping enough of his late mother’s warmth would be contained within it to seal her approval in each stroke of her signature he forged onto the page.

(He knew it was not.)

(He knew what he was doing was wrong.)

(He knew, but it didn’t matter anymore.)

* * *

He was in such an elevated state of mourning that he couldn’t fathom living without them anymore, and he would have done anything to achieve his goal.

If he joined _Danganronpa,_ if he let _Danganronpa_ kill him, he would finally be with his family again instead of wishing — wishing his father had thrown him into that landslide instead, wishing his mother had suffocated him with those pills and found her happiness without the burden of her children. Her failure child.

Fruitlessly wishing his sister’s illness would have taken him, so it wouldn’t have had to come to this. So he would finally understand the pain she went through.

(He wished it was him who died instead.)

(Always. Every time he thought about it.)

(He deserved it most.)

He was going to join them, anyway, so he’d thrown everything to the wind.

 _Danganronpa_ was known for brutality. He wanted a death so gruesome nobody would recognize his body.

He wanted them to behead him so his heart wouldn’t sway his head anymore. He wanted them to rip him apart, so not even a single vein would connect him to that fearsome organ in his chest. His heart was the most wretched part of him, because his heart still wanted him to _survive_.

That was why he had dared to say something so bold, back then.

That was why he marked his audition with hands that shook uncontrollably by his sides and a spine that threatened to curl in on itself, vertebrae by vertebrae. His bones had always rattled like there were ghosts inside of them. Haunted by his very own skeleton; it was no way to live.

“Make me something inhuman.” He had said. “Tear down this worthless humanity of mine, and make me something inhuman.”

They listened. That was what _Danganronpa_ did.

They killed his humanity.

Then, in a final act of cruelty, they gave it back.

* * *

_Don’t be silly, Korekiyo._

_You can’t get back what you’ve lost. It’s not so easy, not when there’s a world out there that wants to hurt you._

_Do not fret, my dear. It is not good to get emotional._

_Do not fret, my dear. I will keep you safe._

_Close your eyes. Breathe for me. Yes, good. Relax. That’s good. You are doing so good. Yes, that’s right. Thanks to me, there is nothing that can hurt you anymore._

_Your life belongs to me now._

_I will be here with you, always._

_I will love you, always._

* * *

When Shinguuji woke from the dead, he was burning with hysteria.

He was the unstitched seams of something barely living, in all respects having been spun and shaken and boiled and drowned and melted so that not even his soul had escaped unscathed — but most of all, worst of all, he was still alive.

He would have been happier if he had never learned the truth, he thought. If he had died when he was supposed to, if he had found his peace without afterlife.

(He didn’t deserve an afterlife.)

In a state of half-ecstasy half-horror, he recalled his own frightful disintegration, and he wondered just how it was that anyone could put him back together after that.

A snap of a glove caught his attention like a gunshot going off. His eyes darted to the source, suddenly all too aware of the straps that bound him to the bed. His body seized up, remembering. In clarity, the feeling prolonged, heat searing up nerve endings, fusing fabric to skin, going into shock, burning, choking, scalding–

He couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t.

Suddenly, it all felt far too constricting, and all the lingering thrill evaporated into sheer terror.

“Wh-wh-at—” His words hitched between gasps of air. He must not have spoken in quite some time. It didn’t make sense. He was supposed to be dead. “What— is happening—?”

“We’re giving back all your memories prematurely,” a figure in a white coat informed him. Clinically. “Since with memories like yours, it’s too dangerous to have you recover like that.”

If he could have, Shinguuji might have doubled over when he laughed and spoke in a voice that couldn’t possibly have been his own. His ribs ached like he was being possessed, starting from the very cavern of his chest and expanding outwards, rapidly, consuming him whole.

Suddenly, he could speak clearly but it wasn’t him at all.

“Oh? _Dangerous_ , you say? What could you possibly mean by that? You speak of danger, yet I am the one who remains incapable of movement,” a breath, an involuntary smile. “ _Kukuku…_ humanity can possess such irrational fears, but I believe that is beautiful, too. Don’t you?”

“You don’t belong in this world.” The stranger said. The other glove snapped against their wrist. “It’s time we got rid of you.”

* * *

She came to him with a torturous grace, alabaster face with a sympathetic smile, and he reached out for her, shaking.

 _“Dear, sweet Korekiyo,_ ” she murmured, clasping his hand, all serenity. “ _Reunite with me. You have done enough._ ”

“I will,” he whispered. “I will come to you.”

“ _Now, Korekiyo, don’t keep me waiting._ ”

“You know they’re… they’re doing something to me. It hurts,” he guided her gentle hand to his chest, which was threatening to burst open. His heart thrashed beneath his sternum, and despite its fight, his body remained cold. Sweat soaking his hair and gaze falling out of focus, he asked her, desperately, “Will you make it stop?”

 _“I cannot. Only you can stop that._ ”

“Please make it stop.”

_“I told you, I cannot.”_

“Please, I’ll do anything, I can’t take this anymore,” he trembled, the terror taking control of him as he gripped onto her bone-white fingers. Horrifically, they began to dissolve under his touch, and in his panic, he let go, curling into himself frightfully. “Help me. Please help me.”

 _“If you come to me, I will.”_ She promised.

* * *

Shinguuji didn’t remember dying again, but when he opened his eyes to a brighter ceiling, he had hoped that he had.

He hadn’t.

He closed his eyes and longed, pleaded, begged, not to wake up.

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long he lay like that, in a state of limbo between sleeping and waking.

He could not muster the energy to do anything but remain still, static and stiff as a mannequin, trying to convince himself that he was allowed to take up the space he existed in. Afraid that he wasn’t.

“Shinguuji-kun.”

He wondered if he was imagining it.

He may have been delirious but he believed he heard someone, in the state of half-consciousness he was drifting in and out of in waves. He had no idea.

Time seemed obsolete, somehow, and though he listened, he could barely seem to process the words.

“I’m sorry.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“I didn’t think they would take it that far.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“I knew she was desperate but I didn’t think she would sacrifice everything just for entertainment. I should have known better. Tsumugi has always been more ambition than righteousness. I can’t say I don’t know how it feels, but…”

There was a sigh.

“I didn’t come here to talk about myself. I’ve gotta say, I shouldn’t have come here at all. But I had to. I’m impulsive, I can’t reason with it, I just do what I have to do.”

Pause.

“Haha, and here I said I wasn’t going to talk about myself. I’m just… sorry, okay? Apologies can’t fix everything, but at least know that I’m on your side. It’s not going to be easy, but if you need anything, I’m here for you. Not as a member of _Team Danganronpa_ , but as myself. I’m not like them anymore, I promise.”

A laugh — of the self-deprecating sort. Shinguuji was familiar with the tone but couldn’t quite place it.

“God, look at me, I’m such a coward I can’t even say these things to your face. Hey, _Danganronpa_ is afraid of you, did you know that?”

Another laugh, gentle but hollow. Humorless. Hardly a laugh at all.

“They went too far. They don’t know how to take it back. You’re going to have to learn to tame what lives inside of you. I know that sounds terrible, but it’s true. I’m sorry.”

Solemnly, the voice departed with one last line.

“ _Danganronpa_ doesn’t know how to save you.”


	2. Hush Little Baby, Don't Say A Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am sorry.” Shinguuji said quietly. Apologizing to the dead was all he ever seemed to be able to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: nonchalant morbidity, panic attack (1)

_“Korekiyo,”_ called his mother. _“Come here, darling.”_

He padded over the tatami, meeting her by the porch where she sat.

She gestured for him to take a seat beside her, so he knelt for her, head bowing respectfully as he tucked his legs beneath him. “Yes? What is it, _kaa-san_?”

 _“Oh, my dear,”_ she exclaimed, hand fluttering over her mouth daintily. Her nails were painted a deep, deep black. She was a woman of mourning. Even with the expressiveness gracing her weathered features, she was nothing else. Her dark eyes softened. _“You have been playing with the ornaments again, haven’t you?”_

He glanced down at his hands. In his haste to meet her demand, he had forgotten to replace the dolls on the mantle, and they lay there in their white-faced red-lipped innocence, perfectly round wooden faces staring up at him.

“My apologies,” he said, passing them into her waiting palms. “I was… admiring their designs. The history of _kokeshi_ dolls is interesting, is it not? They have been a great many things, from guardians and protective charms for children, to keepers of souls, to enigmatic yet controversial tokens for luck and harvest, to other highly intriguing meanings. Culture that shifts through time is truly fascinating. I do believe–” He caught himself mid-spiel, and lowered his gaze. “– ah, it appears I have gone on a tangent. I will save it for a more appropriate time.”

 _“It is quite alright,”_ she laughed ever light, settling the dolls gently on the ground. They landed silently. It was a foolish thing to be unsettled by, but he felt himself tense, waiting for it all to be whisked away, and for his mother to vanish the moment he blinked.

“I am sorry.” Shinguuji said quietly. Apologizing to the dead was all he ever seemed to be able to do.

 _“There is no need. I am not mad. You have always been a wonderfully curious child.”_ Her gaze lingered on him for a moment before turning away. _“Though I suppose I can hardly call you ‘child’ anymore. You’ve grown a lot since I last saw you.”_

He nodded, quick to reach out in reassurance. “I do not blame you for what you chose to do, _kaa-san_. You were in no condition to care for us. Even breathing felt like hurting sometimes. I understand that now, more than ever.”

 _“And you know, Korekiyo, I do wish so sincerely that you didn’t.”_ She cupped his hands together. Her touch was cold. Weightless. He was frozen with it. She didn’t seem to notice. _“I don’t suppose there’s any way I can make it up to you. My exit was far too abrupt, I admit it now, but I do wish you well."_

“There is nothing you need to make up for, as I’ve mentioned,” he replied, and he hoped his resignation was enough to persuade her to drop the subject. “I have already come to terms with what has happened.”

_“Hm… even if you say that, I would like it if you were to live a long and prosperous life.”_

He felt his posture tighten, as though his every thought of dying was now bared for his mother to see. He had to remain calm. He couldn’t cause a mourning woman any more grief. His breath came out in a steady exhale.

He enunciated clearly so the message wouldn’t be missed. “I am grateful for the sentiment, however… I don’t believe that is necessary.”

 _“Oh, but it is.”_ Her grip loosened as she started to pull away. Panic surged through him, the fear that if she let go, she would disappear for good. She seemed to sense it, but she did not attempt reassurance, only kept speaking, a strand of her inky hair falling from its bun as she bowed her head solemnly. _“Or has it come time that it is selfish for a mother to wish for her own child’s happiness?”_

“I used you,” he mentioned, grasping at her sleeve as a lost child might. “W-when I wrote your name, it wasn’t– without that, I wouldn’t have– what I did back then. Signing your name. Signing my life away pretending you permitted it, I – I shouldn’t have done. That. I shouldn’t have done any of this.”

 _“I know that you did what you thought you had to do and it is okay to be afraid of the consequences.”_ She smiled serenely, tucking his hair behind his ear.

It was too kind a smile for somebody like him. He had forgotten that his mother had always been so blisteringly weak. He did not deserve her kindness after all he had done.

 _“It is okay to have regrets,”_ She continued to say, _“Making mistakes is something that makes us fundamentally human. We are deeply flawed. There may be nothing beautiful or satisfying about that, but it is the truth.”_

“But I… I have done unspeakable things and I have hurt people, _kaa-san_ ,” He whispered.

_“And you have hurt yourself the most. Perhaps, if you seek to find redemption, you must first come to terms with how you have come to suffer from your actions as well.”_

“Shouldn’t I reap the punishment I deserve? For the path I’ve chosen?”

 _“Your punishment is living with these burdens already. Do not shy away from this. Yes, you have made terribly poor decisions, Korekiyo, I cannot refute that._ ” She pressed the dolls back into his hands and nodded sagely. _“However, what you should always know about being human is that in our hearts, we have an infinite potential to learn and grow. Even the wickedest can change if that is what they truly desire. You would do well to remember that.”_

* * *

He curled tighter into himself until silence blanketed him completely. Tighter and tighter he coiled beneath the sheets, trying to quell the shaking that seemed to overtake his body like a disease, and finding that he couldn’t stop.

His eyes opened with a weary flutter to a hazy white room and a painful throbbing in his head that only intensified the longer he attempted to make sense of it all.

It was nigh unbearable in the moment, and he slapped frantically at his wrist, trying to evict the tremble through force alone, but it was a weak attempt with little strength behind it. It induced a temporary numbness in him that frightened him more than it could ever calm him, and he held his wrist close to his chest after that. Delicately. Protectively.

If even _Danganronpa_ feared the monster they had injected into him, he didn’t know what to think anymore.

If even _Danganronpa_ feared the monster they had injected into him, he didn’t know if he would ever be able to find peace, and that terrified him more than anything.

* * *

_There is nothing to be afraid of._

_I am with you. I will keep you safe._

_If there is one thing you must know, please know that._

* * *

The memories he harbored slowly bloomed.

Hesitant at first, then sprouting rapidly in every direction.

No comparison or visualization could have done it justice – it was unlike any experience he had felt, as though his very nervous system was being renewed, every fiber of his body rewritten (or was it being stripped away, he had no clue, both seemed as though they would feel the same).

They came like wildflowers taking root in his brain the longer he laid there. Intrusive and ravenous, they were near parasitical, and he felt a dizzying sensation blowing through his fragile mind, almost as if the memories were vines that were thrashing about with the yearning to eat him alive.

He was unsure of what _Danganronpa_ had done to him, but knowing that there must have been a reason they had left him alone. To orient himself, to find his footing in the many twisting paths that opened up in his mind.

To find his roots among the garden that would sap his energy, to collect only the flowers that mattered. A choice he was to make on his own, and one he did not trust himself with.

An analogy only. There were no flowers, only his sister and the red camellia in her hands as she beckoned him closer, but just as quick as the vision came, she dissipated, and the camellia beheaded itself between her lingering thumb and forefinger, falling off the stem and plummeting into another memory below.

This was a less pleasant one, the putrid smell of blood and water surrounding what Shinguuji starkly recognized as Hoshi’s bones laid amongst shards of glass. Inseparable, broken things, it made him feel nauseous all of a sudden, even if at the time, he had felt nothing of the sort.

The fragments grew into the silhouette of an undistinguishable person, and Shinguuji barely takes a breath before the phantom hand swipes at his mouth with a gentle hand, prying it open, kissing him, suffocating him. Then they too, crumble, and Shinguuji is left in a white room again, with memories swarming like termites in his rotting brain.

His fingers nested in his hair as he struggled to keep his breathing even, enlisting all his focus and concentration on staying present. Not losing himself to the memories that were not his to take, no matter how they tempted him – they were not his. They were not his.

He kept telling himself this.

Reading folk stories aloud, allowing every curve of every syllable to roll sweetly off his tongue as his sister diligently stitched his uniform together and they waxed poetic about symbolism and tragedy and how utterly beautiful it all was to witness and to embrace…

These memories were not his. He had no right to take them.

How loving and warm it had been in the warmer months to draw the hospital curtains aside and feel the sunlight streaming in, how the people below were small enough to look like ants, and how his sister would weave stories for them. She had always been so creative with her thoughts, giving every stranger their own lives to live in this little world she had created.

These memories were not his. He had no right to take them.

Shinguuji remembered now. He found the flower with the deepest roots, ingrained so far inside him that should he ever remove it, he might lose his soul, his core, his identity, for good. He plucked the beheaded camellia from the dark waters it floated upon and thought about how it was such a pivotal cultural symbol of death and love and graceful persistence.

Slowly, it came, before taking him over all at once.

His mother’s name, too, had the meaning of _camellia_.

“Remember this, Korekiyo,” his flower of a mother had said the night before she passed. “There are pains much worse than dying, but even so, you must overcome them. Pain is transient. Pain will not last forever. You must promise me that you will always do what you can to survive.”

He remembered so fast it was like he had never left. Death pendulum swinging, he was buried by a landslide of emotions, of the years they had suppressed to give him new life.

It was torture.

He blacked out on the thought, falling gracelessly onto the mattress in a crumple of limbs.

It mustn’t have been long before he awoke to murmurs, in a half-consciousness again, words ringing out in cryptic terms and buzzing ceaseless around him. He didn’t open his eyes to look. Just listened.

“— Success?”

“— Failure?”

Oh, he didn’t know.

Love, hate, love, hate, it all spun in his mind in a mess that he couldn’t hope to untangle, and when cold hands lifted him with even colder smiles after he had supposedly died and was reborn only to die again and wake again (what a horrific cycle) – he couldn’t hear a thing.

His head had silenced the world, and only one voice remained.

He held onto it.

* * *

_I must say I am quite impressed with you._

_I didn’t think you could make it through without disappointment, but you are devoted to me, after all. I am happy…_

_I am so very happy, Korekiyo._

_Thank you for allowing me to stay._

_I will love you, always._

* * *

“Any moment now…”

Shinguuji shot up from his bed, chest heaving, unable to explain how he felt, only that it was unprecedented panic, and he couldn’t wrench the feeling out of himself no matter how hard he tried.

If he had not so quickly honed in on his unexpected visitor, he might have stuck his own fingers down his throat, but he figured there were always reasons to keep watch, and these jerk impulses might have been one of them.

“Since you’re awake, it’s about time you learnt the truth for yourself.” The figure in white he had envisioned when he was first resurrected had returned with a badge proudly toting _Team Danganronpa_ on their lapel, and was promptly sliding an electronic tablet into Shinguuji’s lap.

They were much less cold now, near jovial in nature, in fact, but it didn’t soothe Shinguuji’s nerves one bit. He was still trying to process what was real and what was not.

He latched onto the device, needing something solid to occupy his fidgeting hands. His head was pounding. Even thinking in any form of coherence was agony.

The stranger smiled at him. “You know, you gave us an amazing show out there. We all knew you were gonna be hot news but you really outdid yourself, Shinguuji-san! There hasn’t been this much controversy since– well, I’ll spare you the gritty details since you just woke up again, but let’s just say it’s been a while since we caused such a stir. You really got the people talking!”

It was too much information to process, and too many questions without answers. He didn’t have the energy for this conversation, especially not with somebody he didn’t know.

“Wh-what is this…?” Shinguuji asked absently instead, sweeping over the tablet screen with a light hand. His voice was hoarse, every word stinging. He felt a sense of detachment from his actions, as though they weren’t his own, despite that being the only probable possibility.

He was nobody but himself. So he thought. It wasn’t something he could argue for, if asked.

“Press ‘play’ and you’ll see,” laughed _Danganronpa_ in a white suit.

So Shinguuji obeyed, and started watching _Danganronpa V3._

* * *

Down to every single detail.

_Korekiyo. They are lying to you. I am the only thing you need._

He had been delusional but he had been so rapt with it. Nothing had ever felt so divine.

_I promise that if you believe in me, I will keep you safe. Be good for me. Don’t listen to anyone else._

Objectively, built to be a haunting, flickering presence, and to be despised yet to relish in it – Shinguuji knew that feeling well. There he was, tipping his hat, gushing high and preaching about humanity, it was all so familiar.

He couldn’t help but track his own movements.

On this side of the screen, it was so very distancing.

It felt narcissistic to watch, but he was fascinated by it, mouthing the words he knew he would say, just as if it were a game and nothing more. Shinguuji Korekiyo, wrapped from head to toe, wandering from place to place. An unwanted, unbothered existence.

Then, fervently protesting against the stereotype of his appearance, only to fall upon it! Oh, and it was a tragedy but wasn’t he just a walking, blathering tragedy, he lamented bitterly.

_I will protect you. Don’t you remember all the wonderful time we spent together?_

Oh, no, he could not look away even if he tried, but the way it all came together so drastically, oh, yes, their reactions were so beautiful, he had wanted it then, savored it then, even if now it left a bad flavor in his mouth.

_I am real, if you believe in me._

It was an unbelievable tale, and that was the fiction that was _Danganronpa_.

_Believe me. I am all you have left._

The fictional reality that Shinguuji was struggling to leave behind.

* * *

Past his death, he watched Iruma choke and Gokuhara get impaled and the pain that coursed through him was enough to remind him why he had loathed to watch so much in the first place, even if his sister had always loved the fourth trials the most.

Past his death, he watched Ouma and Momota’s Schrödinger trial with attentive eyes and the astonishment that coursed through him was enough to remind him why he had adored this killing game for all the wrong reasons, for being a birthground for anthropological study unlike any other.

Past his death, he watched Shirogane tear her own world to pieces without even thinking twice. He wondered vaguely if she knew how lunatical she looked – but it was a fleeting jest to himself. He had looked worse.

And they had both murdered innocents, no matter which kind of perspective was taken.

It wasn’t even so poignant that Shirogane had bashed Amami over the head and got Akamatsu executed for it in the grand scheme of things, and yet Shinguuji started to understand that the world was so full of lies that it was possible that nothing he knew was real.

Perhaps, even existing here, he wasn’t real.

Perhaps he had found death, and this was a loop of purgatory he was confined to.

He almost scoffed at the thought. He knew being delusional wouldn’t help, anymore.

Of course, he knew that.

* * *

“These will make sense now.” The _Danganronpa_ staff returned with a stack of papers, a blur of hours later. Shinguuji’s hands were still locked tightly around his tablet, unable to process anything, unable to move. With a gentle tug, the staff member freed the item from his hands and dropped the papers down in its stead.

“Look kid,” they said. “You were the talk of the town the week the reveal came out. Isn’t that amazing?”

Shinguuji looked. He could see himself grinning on the front page, backpage, in-between pages. Red-lipped smile.

 _Look, now I will never die._ The voice hovering daintily in his head told him with glee. _You wrote me a legacy, Korekiyo. I’m so proud of you, my dear brother._

It was a jarring dissonance to the words bolded on the page - SHOCK VALUE, SHOCK VALUE, SHOCK VALUE. He didn’t know what he believed.

She laughed, and the sound turned his stomach inside out, hollowing his heart and hollowing his chest. He forced his attention elsewhere. Any distraction, anything to focus on, he would take it.

Papers. The papers. He seized them tighter, like a lifeline.

They felt foreign in his hands. How was it that not even material objects felt real to him?

Pushing those thoughts away, he began to read. He was skimming more than anything. Too unfocused to truly take it all in.

Distractions. Nothing but distractions.

In the articles, they heralded Chabashira, laughably ‘a martyr’ though she had no choice in the matter, and Shinguuji started scratching her black-and-white face out of every newspaper and magazine he could find. The photos of her corpse were front and centre, in horrifying clarity, and he tried not to think about how many people must have known as he scraped them out as well and scattered the debris all over the sheets.

He ripped through pictures of Angie, and the stray Saihara also met his wrath, but every picture of himself, he tore into such tiny pieces that he hoped it would do the same to him.

Red-lipped smile.

‘The most heinous’, ‘evil, despicable’, ‘terrible, and terrifying’, ‘the most vile Danganronpa character this season’ blared back at him in large blocky fonts, and hand-in-hand laid the name ‘Shinguuji Korekiyo’, as the gazes that used to be indifferent turned on him. As humanity turned on him.

It was nauseating.

(It was beautiful.)

_If you accept me again, I could fix it all for you. Kill them all. Save yourself. I want to save you because I love you._

He swallowed faintly, feeling sick. Those were not his thoughts. She was not supposed to exist.

(He loved her, too.)

In an act of sudden agitation, he shoved all the papers to the floor, wrenching the sheets off of him and letting the scraps fall. He wanted to fall with them, into pieces, becoming nothingness.

_It’s what they deserve, isn’t it, Korekiyo?_

Loud and abrupt, someone screamed from down the hall. Shinguuji winced, eyes snapping shut. He held in a breath, bracing for an impact that never came. Instead, it was a chill that ran up his spine and froze him there. He shouldn’t have cared, but he did.

(Ah, the ways humanity crumbled to suffering, so pitiful, so moving, so utterly beautiful.)

He recognized that voice, for it had always been loud and abrupt, in fact. So it was Iruma that had woken up this time, and he could hear her shattering like a glass bottle to the pavement.

“Why, why, why,” she was sobbing, “Stop, please, make it stop– I’ll be good, I, I promise, I don’t wanna die, it hurts, it hurts– I can’t breathe, make it stop, make it stop–”

“Ah, the next event has arrived,” the _Danganronpa_ employee closest to Shinguuji glanced up at the door, before pulling out their phone and tapping frantically. He bit his lip and hoped Iruma was going to be alright.

_Oh, come now dear, I’m only joking. A jest, a jest. That is all._

With a shock, he heard Gokuhara following, waking, coming to life at once, bellowing an agonizing cry that the very hallways quaked to grieve with him. “How could I? How could I? Gonta is the worst person alive– Gonta didn’t save anyone, Gonta remembers, so please stop the hurt now– please end it– it’s okay– it’s what Gonta deserves–”

_Korekiyo, calm your mind. You are getting too distressed. These people don’t matter to you._

She was right. He heard Ouma waking and fracturing the cacophony. His voice came in quiet sniffles that escalated, all frenzied and frightful. Yes, she must be right.

(Always, she was always right.)

“Kill me! Why won’t you just kill me already!? I didn’t want to come back!” Ouma shrieked like a mantra. “Let me die! Let me die! Let me die– I was supposed to die–”

Then Momota. Screaming, just screaming. Screaming as though he was being tortured, when coming back to life should feel like salvation.

Shinguuji learnt the truth behind _Danganronpa V3_ and they do too, in increments, in fragments.

They wake to it.

The truth and nothing but the truth.

“He’s freaking out,” he heard distantly. “I told you we should have put him in solitary, he’s not stable. How many times do I have to say this? Listen, Shirogane-san, this isn’t a safe place to keep him–”

They were not real. He was not real. Not entirely. Maybe not at all.

_I am real._

“No, I really, really think he should be in solitary.”

None of the overarching existence he believed he had lived, was real.

_I have always been real._

He suddenly began to retch, feeling the insane urge to gut himself over and over to make the pain stop (not enough, not enough, it would never be enough), and realizing that Shinguuji Korekiyo was a memory he couldn’t separate from _Danganronpa_.

“Not a punishment, just a temporary fix! Until we get things sorted!”

He was never going to part from _Danganronpa’s_ Shinguuji, no matter how much he agreed with the words that spilled from the pages – disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.

“You saw how many times it took for us to– yes, I’m with him right now, where do you think this is coming from? No, I haven’t told him anything, he shouldn’t be reacting this badly, I don’t know why–”

He chose this. He wanted this. He said he didn’t want to be human anymore, so _Danganronpa_ made him a monster.

An unsalvageable monster.

This was what he asked for.

_You are beautiful, Korekiyo._

He felt sick.

So who the hell was he now? What did they do to him? Why did some part of him still enjoy it – that was sickening, how could he have possibly enjoyed that – how could he have e-enjoyed – apologize, _apologize, apologize_ — _for not enjoying it, you should apologize! Apologize, Korekiyo! Apologize!_

“S-so-sorry—” he choked out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry— please, stop, I’m sorry… please… _I’m_ –”

Ah, but wasn’t humanity truly a fragile yet beautiful thing! The suffering was only another facet of what made it so– no, no, no— unfathomably _beautiful_ , yes, beautiful, it was all so— no, no, no– his mind was— that was— _don’t fight it, Korekiyo! This is who you are!_ – no, this wasn’t who he was – but then who else was he? He was Shinguuji, he wasn’t Shinguuji, where did the line end?

_I am here! Calm down! Put all your faith in me, just like before. I am —_

“I wish it was you, instead.” His sister had whispered with finality.

_I am the only one who wants you around, I would never hurt you, believe me, my dear brother, I have always been here to save you._

That wasn’t his sister. His sister had wanted him to die, right? This wasn’t his sister. His sister wouldn’t have saved him even if she could. Right?

_I am your sister. There is no other explanation for it._

“You are not my sister! _”_ He snapped back, glaring up into empty space, but not even those words felt like his own. It only sounded like a plea. A fabricated wish that he clung to, desperately, hoping it was firm enough to be true. “You’re just wearing her face.”

_Now, now, don’t be like that. You must not forget what I have done for you. All that I have done was for your own good, was it not?_

He considered it.

She had always spoken in such a kind and gentle tone. She had always guided him, and talked him down when he got too high strung, panic soothed by her overwhelming presence. She had made him calm.

Back in the simulation, she had made him feel secure, as though he could never come to harm as long as she was there with him.

But he remembered, of course he did, the moment when she turned on him just like everybody else, ghost of a heavenly smile as she let him die in front of her. She had laughed.

When he had finally been able to reach her, she had let him fall to dust.

Perhaps she was his sister, then. She wanted him to suffer. She wanted him to break, knowing he would do anything she wished.

She wanted him to cease existing entirely.

_Please don’t misunderstand, Korekiyo. I did not mean it in that way. You of all people should know that. I was freeing you. All that I have ever done, it has always been for you._

He wasn’t so sure. He didn’t even know if she was supposed to exist. She shouldn’t have been, but that didn’t explain how she was here with him now.

After betraying him.

_You are overreacting. Calm down._

After letting him die, even though she had promised to protect him.

_Stop. You are thinking too much. I have always been here for you, have you no gratitude?_

He clawed violently at his head, pulling his hair, thrashing about on the mattress, knocking over everything he could reach.

_Without me, you would be alone._

It wasn’t enough. He wanted to destroy everything, everything that had led up to this, and the world that had taken his sister away from him, the world that tried to replace her with, with _this_ — they could all burn, cremated alive in their ignorance. They ruined everything! He ruined everything!

He was a failure! He couldn’t even die properly! Failure, failure, failure, _yes, Korekiyo, that’s what you are, a failure—_

He didn’t know when he had started causing a disturbance but somewhere along the line a flurry of nurses rushed in again with frustrated sighs, the stranger in the white coat shaking their head as they muttered something under their breath.

The nurses’ hands were on him in an instant, holding him down and forcing him to be still. After a few more moments of struggling, he relented. He hadn’t used this body enough in recent times to be able to fight it.

They let him go with slow motions, talking to him, talking him back down from the outburst. He tuned them out, chest heaving as he tried to remember how to breathe. He didn’t particularly want to.

A braver nurse pushed the hair from his forehead, whispering to him in dulcet tones as if they cared.

Oh, but they didn’t care. Nobody cared. Shinguuji could die right now. He should die right now. They shouldn’t have brought him here. They should have let him die.

Letting him live was an act of cruelty in itself.

“Korekiyo?”

The world came rushing back as Angie’s face suddenly appeared at the door, peering hesitantly past the door jamb. Her fingers were clamped tight against the wood.

He fell into quiet, eyes wide as he watched her.

She was alive, too, which meant that — which meant that they all knew what he had done — which meant that they all remembered what he had done— she must have remembered, and Chabashira must have also remembered what he had— _oh_ , she must want his head on a spike and he would let her have it— terrible, terrible, _terrible_ , he was going to be sick— he was already—

“Please don’t cry,” Angie said softly, before scuttling away as fast as she had come.

He closed his eyes, bringing his shuddering fingertips to his face.

Ah. He was crying.

The staff that fled after Angie would have been comical if Shinguuji hadn’t realized almost immediately after she left that she saw him as nothing but a cold-hearted killer.

He remembered slicing her neck open.

He remembered being terrified when she crumpled to the floor, even though he had supposedly done it many times before.

* * *

Did he murder Angie Yonaga?

He must have.

Then why was he so relieved to see her alive?

* * *

_Close your eyes. Relax._

_Allow me to guide you._

_Everything I do is because I love you so very much. I will love you, always, always, always._

_Don’t forget that._

_I wouldn’t have done all those things if I didn’t love you._

_I wouldn’t have come back if I didn’t love you._

_Be at peace. Your ailings are only ever temporary._

_You mustn’t be so weak-willed. Now rest._

* * *

That night he was so violently shaken, drenched in the fear of falling asleep and waking up an entirely new and despicable person, that he couldn’t think about anything else. He resorted to cradling his knees to his chest and rocking, trying desperately to bring his heart rate back to normal.

When sleep finally took hold of him, it was unbearably fitful and staggered. It could hardly be called sleep at all.

* * *

He woke up screaming silently, clawing frantically at every available surface as if it would alleviate the pressure that seemed to persist over him, constantly, one that wouldn’t leave him be for a second of peace. A moment of tranquility was all he desired but no matter how exhausted he was, his mind would not rest.

“Why me?” He cried, knowing nobody would hear him and anybody who did wouldn’t care. “Why did you choose me? Out of everyone you could have chosen, why did you do this to _me?_ ”

* * *

He soon found out that he was wrong about nobody listening in.

 _Danganronpa_ had started observing him.

He supposed it made sense, but all it did was frustrate him even more. He felt powerless. Paranoid. He understood their reasoning, of course, but it did not soothe him in the slightest.

Alas, the roles had finally reversed — alas, he had become the specimen to be examined, and he despised every aching, rolling second of it.

It was true, observers often didn’t appreciate being the one observed.

Yet there was nothing he could do.

He was caged. He was unpredictable. They were right to be cautious.

So he sat still as a glass cabinet decoration out for display, detained like a crime scene behind yellow tape. He knew how he must have looked. He knew he was volatile. He knew he was one foot over the line, and they didn’t trust him enough to leave him be.

He knew they were afraid.

Afraid of what they had done to him.

Afraid of what they had created.

He could only keep himself together for so long, they must have thought. Any moment now, Shinguuji was going to snap.

Though he seethed, he said nothing. Did nothing. Waited, helplessly, staring at the paper ceiling until his eyes were bone dry, and did nothing.

There was nothing he could do.

* * *

Whoever it was that gave him warning never returned, but their words became more and more poignant in his mind.

 _“Danganronpa_ doesn’t know how to save you,” they had said.

He pondered it silently, in his mind drafting a reply – had he been closer to consciousness than he was, he might have asked, “Then what makes you think I can be saved at all?”

* * *

He found sleep again, slowly, only because it was better than the tedium of being awake.

Consciousness was exhausting. Everything was exhausting.

Even just listening to the conversations that reached him through the walls – muffled, hushed, high tones and low – became exhausting.

* * *

The first dream that took him after resurrection was of a pier, where he stood staring at his reflection in the pitch black water, wondering why he couldn’t recognize the person staring back. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there. Still and empty. A lone figure in a ghost town.

If this was what defeat felt like, then he had long since been defeated.

* * *

“Shinguuji-kun, how are you feeling?”

Shirogane seated herself at his bedside without waiting for an invitation. When she looked back at him, she stilled for a moment. Her eyes seemed to glaze over, as if remembering where she was.

“Oh, you… right, sorry.” She tilted her head, hand over mouth. “You’re no longer the Shinguuji-kun I knew, are you? It’s plainly difficult to adjust when you look so similar. But don’t worry, I know that you are different. That you are all…different.”

There was a dull amusement in her tone. He had never seen Shirogane in such a state of apathy, it was though the very idea of speaking to him was boring her to the point of no return.

“Do you remember when we were drafting your design together?” She asked, as though he cared. As though he wanted anything to do with her. “Ah, you looked so beautiful… I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Our very own trial three killer. You certainly did not disappoint. _Danganronpa_ is very pleased with you, you know.” Her finger traced her bottom lip and she smiled. “The lipstick look was a thrilling suggestion, Shinguuji-kun.”

He squinted at her for a second, wary about the praising of his misdeeds, before cupping his hand over his own mouth, cheeks burning. He had forgotten to hide his face and now it was all too prominent.

“I… that’s not...”

“Ah, but things are… different now, aren’t they? Would you prefer it if I brought you a mask?” She inquired, all prim and professional. “I seem to recall that you used to wear one too — it was partially our inspiration for your design, after all — and you don’t seem very comfortable without it. Of course, that’s just my plain observation.”

Though he loathed the thought of asking Shirogane for anything, particularly if she was proud of what he had become, he nodded slightly, eyes shutting for a moment as if it would be enough to rewind how much she’d seen of him.

“You don’t have to be ashamed or anything,” Shirogane said, as if somehow reading his thoughts. “I made sure you were beautiful, of course, but you gave me a nice foundation to work upon. Besides, most of the nation _has_ seen you naked.”

He felt himself flash both hot and cold at the same time. The reality was almost too much to wrap his head around, but recalling what had felt like a pivotal moment when he had reunited with his sister instead sent shivers down his spine.

“Ah.”

“We took a little gamble with that one, because even with the story intact, we weren’t so sure about showing it,” Shirogane didn’t giggle, or add on to it childishly like he might have expected, simply kept looking on clinically. “But your sister’s actress had insisted, and who were we to deny some added impact?”

She nodded to herself, realizing he was not going to respond. “I must say, that really drove the point home, huh? The more outlandish _Danganronpa_ becomes, the more ratings we get. Good, bad, it’s all the same! It’s all for the world of _Danganronpa_!”

He was resigned to the fact that every bare mouthed moment of awareness would feel like a detachment from his own body, so he must hold onto any shred of normalcy that would reassure him he was still himself.

Perhaps, going forward, he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to be seen with his mouth uncovered again. The exposure felt undeserved. It was not his mouth to show. That was how he felt.

Shirogane had such empty words, too. He already knew he was edging on hideous without makeup, and even with, he wasn’t much to gawk at. He had once had a sliver of pride in his appearance, but even thinking about seeing his reflection right now made his stomach twist like vines.

“I don’t feel like myself right now,” he blurted without prompting, hoping, maybe, there was still inklings of the kinder Shirogane left in her.

“Perhaps that is so.” She responded. “The truth is, Shinguuji-kun, from now on, there will be people who prefer you this way.”

He didn’t ask if she was one of them. He was foolish to think she wouldn’t be.

“Alright,” she said suddenly, patting down her skirt and standing. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have to attend to some pressing matters. I shall be back with your request as soon as possible, however if you do need anything, don’t hesitate to call. We’re happy to help.”

With that, she was gone.

* * *

He thought about Shinguuji Korekiyo, the remorseless wandering soul, so detached from the rest of the world.

The blood on his hands. The girls with the loveliest hearts he’d slain, mourned by the ones they left behind. He had attended the earlier funerals because the ceremonies intrigued him, but as the number of victims climbed, he found he was better off not attending, after all.

Pure girls, untainted women, only the best companions for his sister. Naturally, he was no senseless killer – every action he performed had a purpose and he had little tolerance for unnecessary carnage.

His youth in a casket, his steps lurking in the shadows of those who could never quite capture him, innocence unheard of, it was all for a worthy cause.

For his sister.

Everything he did was for his sister and for her alone.

* * *

_That’s right._

_You remembered so well, Korekiyo._

_Yes, please do not worry. I am so proud of you. You are doing so well. I will be here with you. I will keep you safe._

_I love you, and I will love you, always._

* * *

Shirogane was smiling when he put his mask on.

She didn’t say anything while he did so, simply waited until he had adjusted — there wasn’t that many ways to fix it but he didn’t want to look at her so he took his time — and then tipped her head politely, speaking in that sugary tone again. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He replied. He wanted her to leave. She knew he wanted her to leave. She didn’t.

“That’s good.” She said. Her hands clasped together on her lap. “You’re taking all of this a lot better than we expected.”

Shinguuji hadn’t any idea how to respond to that.

“‘Better’ is relative, I suppose.” He offered in comment anyway.

“I suppose so.” She echoed. “I must say, it is rather disheartening that you’ve grown so quiet, Shinguuji-kun. I had written you up as a remarkable conversationalist. You would relate everything to each other. You were always so curious, so keen to learn the world so thoroughly. Cultures, customs, and beliefs were all part of your passion, and your talent. It was all so beautiful.”

“Then perhaps I simply don’t wish to engage in conversation with you.” He responded absentmindedly, willing her to disappear from his sight. She didn’t. “Besides, I don’t see any merit in you telling me what I already know.”

“So it seems.” She sighed, fingers lacing together. “You would know yourself best. Is that what you are saying?”

“What did you want from me, Shirogane-san?” He asked, only masking his irritation with the courtesy ingrained into some part of his mind – one that taught him he must always be polite, even when he wished nothing more than to show the opposite.

“Nothing!” She replied, hands waving. “Nothing at all, I was just checking up on you. Routine procedure, just in case you are not functioning as well as you should,” she pursed her lips, “By the state of our technology, however, all of you should be perfectly fine. Within the week, you should be able to walk again, so look forward to it,” she smiled.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

She seemed a little put off by it, as though she couldn’t possibly understand the hostility. Still, Shirogane at the root of how he knew her had always been demure and she seemed to want to stick by it, so she did not mention the tension at all, only fidgeted with her hands as she attempted to come up with something else to say.

“In season,” Shirogane began. “You got a lot of letters, Shinguuji-kun. Would you like to read them sometime soon?”

“No.” He said. She wilted.

“What about gifts? I’m sure there are many interesting items to occupy your time with, and I’ve been so very curious to see what–”

“No.” He said again.

“Oh, of course. Right. By the way,” she gasped, in the way that sounded so acted out and forced. As though she could not carry the conversation any longer. He wondered briefly if she knew how to interact with people at all. “Akamatsu-san actually wanted to talk to you. Are you okay with accepting visitors now?”

Shinguuji didn’t dare point out that she was technically a visitor herself, and had he the option to refuse her entry, he would have.

In any case, he hadn’t the slightest clue what Akamatsu would want with him, so he figured there was no point in declining.

He nodded his acceptance.

* * *

Akamatsu was different than he remembered. She was pale as death, almost walking lifeless, but she was the only one who had chosen to directly approach him in a sense — after the first time, Angie hadn’t shown her face again.

He briefly wondered if Angie had done so against the rules, but it was a fleeting thought. He had no right to reprimand her for her unsavoury choices.

Besides, his visitors seemed to make a habit of being fleeting.

Akamatsu regarded him cautiously for a moment when their eyes met, as if wondering how to deal with him before she took the plunge. She seemed like she didn’t care, honestly, but she had to make sure.

Shinguuji didn’t blame her.

She looked like a shadow of her former self when she finally entered, lips tugged into a smile that was dry as the plasterboard walls around her.

“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” Akamatsu asked without prelude, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and gaze empty. “This humanity that you love oh-so-much. It’s pitiful. Fickle. Hopeless.”

“It’s not.” Shinguuji protested weakly. He didn’t know if he believed it.

“You got your memories back so quickly, you must be confused.” She sighed. “Think on it a little longer. I know you’ll agree with me eventually.”

“You don’t believe in humanity.” It was not a question.

“I don’t.” Akamatsu answered coldly, even though the smile didn’t leave her face. “And when you realize exactly what they did to you, neither will you.”

“Why are you telling me this?” He asked her. It was met with a scoff, so he rephrased it with a little less confidence. “...why did you come?”

“I feel sorry for you, Shinguuji,” she said, twisting a lock of blonde hair around her finger. Nonchalant. “You were used, and you will suffer from it for a long time after. Isn’t that enough for you to lose faith?”

“Hmm, that is an interesting perception, indeed,” he replied. The words continued to spill without his meaning to and he could not hold them back. _Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking_ — “However, trials are only opportunities to overcome, are they not? Humans have capabilities and endurance beyond any visible limitation… yes, it is admirable indeed… and that is another aspect of what I believe is so beautiful about them.”

“Ha. I wasn’t asking _you!_ ” She smiled warmly for only a moment, expression quickly tensing into something indecipherable, “Unless you’d prefer I treat you like you remember me, in which case, I’m really sorry, Shinguuji-kun, I didn’t mean to strike a chord with you, I just think that I’d be sad in this kind of situation so I wanted to see if you were doing okay. You know, because we’re friends, aren’t we? We promised we would all be friends after we escaped, right?”

“What are you playing at, Akamatsu-san?” He asked sharply, and all the lingering warmth seeped out of her expression just like that.

“I didn’t come to talk to fake Shinguuji, okay? Shirogane’s Shinguuji. Just. I’m not Shirogane’s Akamatsu, and this isn’t the simulation anymore.” She looked disgusted for a moment. “God, what even was that? You’re really something, huh? A weird, brainwashed kind of something.” Akamatsu rolled her eyes. “I’m warning you, don’t get too attached to your _Danganronpa_ alter ego. You’ll be in deep shit if he takes over.”

He felt a chill rack his body. It might have been fear. He hated that deeply he was more fascinated by it than he was afraid. That part of his — his _Danganronpa_ alter ego, so Akamatsu had called it — was familiar to him.

His breath left him as a sigh. Resignation. Always resigned. He had learned quickly it was better not to fight.

“I … don’t believe I will live long enough for that to happen.”

Akamatsu looked at him more seriously, gaze finally flickering with the genuinely concerned, near-motherly air of the Akamatsu Kaede that he knew. “You’re not allowed to die, Shinguuji. And from now on, don’t talk about wanting it either. They’ll…” Her brows pinched together as she trailed off.

“They’ll…?”

“They’ll go to extreme measures to keep you alive,” Akamatsu told him curtly, looking away. “That’s all I can say. Pretend if you have to. We’re not getting out of here until they’re satisfied, and there’s a long road ahead of us.”

His voice was strained. “Why…?”

“Are you stupid? _Team Danganronpa_ aren’t gonna let us fucking die now!” She laughed bitterly, sardonically. It looked far too out of place on her sweet heart-shaped face. Yet he knew that this was the Akamatsu that lay beneath it all, the one that had signed up for a killing game because she was faithless and spited the very earth she stood upon.

“The publicity is too grand!” She declared. “Now all we are is dolls for this company’s personal gain! We belong to them now because we signed our lives away before any of this even happened! Isn’t this world so hopeless? So rotten? Isn’t humanity so fucking worthless?”

Shinguuji bowed his head, fingers twisting in the bleached white sheets of the bed.

“Why did you sign up, Shinguuji? Was it for fun? I bet it wasn’t.” She tilted her head quizzically, before her eyes narrowed. “‘Cuz people don’t agree to killing games unless they’re ready to kill or be killed. Were you the former? The latter? Or both, even?”

He swallowed, knowing that he needn’t reply, since Akamatsu seemed like she knew the answer already.

“We belong to _Danganronpa_ now.” She said. “And there are kids outside that want to be like us. They don’t know what it’s like. They think living like this is easy. They think it’s all fun and games. You know, drop the ‘killing’ and it’s all just a game, isn’t it?”

Shaken by the words, he shielded himself with his silence.

“C’mon, wake up already.” Akamatsu sneered at him. “Doesn’t it just make you hate humanity?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [obligatory song rec](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EjNtByUaGk)
> 
> thank you so much for reading so far! happy 2019!


	3. Little Bo-Peep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn’t the will to speak for himself, and he didn’t remember a time he lived for himself, no, suddenly he realized that he could not remember a time when he truly wanted to live for himself, and not just in fear of disappointing others if he died. Laughable, really, it was laughable because he was never the one that deserved to survive.
> 
> Fate was a cruel, twisted thing.

He had expected this. Naturally.

Once, it had been routine.

To wait, and wait, and wait to be addressed. Not to make a sound, not to move once he had been seen. He had to exercise patience, because patience was a beautiful virtue, and his father — the wonderfully wise man that he was — did not bode well with the defiance of beautiful virtues.

That was what it meant to be beautiful. Humanity was most beautiful at its most virtuous. Conflict bred ugliness.

He had always been taught these words.

Even though _Danganronpa_ had attempted to cleanse him with the opposite mentality, he remembered. A lifetime of learned morals, yes, he remembered them clearly now, even if he wasn’t quite strong enough to abide by them just yet.

He supposed it was the sight of his father that forced them to the forefront of his mind. Drew upon his insecurities like a magnet, plunged a fist into his chest and took out his still beating heart. His father had always had that kind of soul. The kind that was grit and bone and looked upon his one heir — his legacy — as though he was a terrible disappointment.

He was always right about that.

“ _Korekiyo. Are you going to keep standing there or are you going to come in?_ ”

Shinguuji came alert with a small jolt, not expecting he would be addressed so soon. He was not prepared. He wondered if all children felt this much scrutiny under a parent’s gaze. It had been too long. He had forgotten how he was expected to act. Feared that he wasn’t performing. That he had already met his late father’s disapproval.

Taking quick bow out of uncertainty, he did not look his father in the eye once as he passed through the door frame and entered the cluttered office, fingers tense and locked together.

Even the flowers in his hands seemed to shrivel with the change of atmosphere, and Shinguuji was glad to have been wearing his mask – at such a close proximity, the scent was almost overbearing.

 _“Now, tell me. What brings you here?”_ His father set down his reading glasses, and as Shinguuji met his gaze, he was startled to realize he was much less intimidating than he remembered.

Weary, perhaps, as withered and wilted as man could be, but nothing to fear, anymore. With the confidence he knew was expected of him, Shinguuji straightened considerably, strolling over to meet his father. Step by cautious step.

There was nothing to fear, but he couldn’t help it. His father had always been his worst critic. Even if it was out of love, he didn’t wish to be reprimanded. Not by a dead man. Not by such insufferable pride.

“These are for you, _otou-san_ ,” he said, setting the flowers on his desk. The crinkle of plastic was almost too loud for the moment, and he winced as his father levelled him with a weighted stare.

_“So you’ve brought flowers.”_

Shinguuji tensed slightly, clutching his hands to his chest. “Ah. Did you not want flowers?”

“ _More flowers than I’ve ever received from you_ ,” His father commented without any change in tone. “ _Why do I get more flowers when I’m dead?_ ”

Somewhere in his mind, Shinguuji registered that it might have been a mere jest, but he was too on edge to even force out a laugh. Already, he was underperforming, and he felt a sliver of panic course through him. _Laugh_ , he tried to command himself, but he was rooted to his silence.

“ _I suppose we did always teach you to respect the dead. I’m glad you learnt that lesson well, Korekiyo.”_

Shinguuji nodded meekly in response. He was still caught up on the fact that he could not laugh, not even able to surrender a single breath to it, and it made him feel ill. Was happiness such a foreign concept to him that he could not even force it from his mouth?

His father smiled at him and he almost crumpled.

Their family had never so much been the joking sort, and though he and his sister had found their own childish amusements growing up, he was suddenly overcome with the solemn awareness that he had never once seen his father smile before in the time he was alive.

“ _Your regret, your anguish…_ ” His father examined the petals of the flowers, pinching one between his fingers. The sweet camellia haunted him again. His sister, his mother, such delicate creatures in comparison to his father — his father had been the structure, the pillar that had held them together. That was what he had always believed. _“Your mourning is a more powerful presence than your gratitude and appreciation for me in all these years I was alive._ ”

“I am sorr—”

_“Don’t apologize. Apologies are a sign of weakness. An admission that you are at fault helps no-one.”_

Shinguuji stilled, his fingers quickly finding each other again and twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

 _“You sound pathetic, apologizing over and over, like that’s going to fix your problems for you. You and your mother are the same, filled to the brim with apologies. Don’t apologize.”_ Shinguuji opened his mouth but his father held up a hand to stop him. “ _Whether it was your fault or not, I don’t happen to care, anymore. It doesn’t affect me. What’s done is done. Move on. Do better next time. That is all._ ”

“You told me once to take responsibility for my actions,” Shinguuji began as evenly as he could. His very spirit seemed to rise the longer his father scolded him. A child’s rebellious spirit, perhaps, and one he hadn’t managed to contain since his father’s passing. “No matter what they might be. You said it was honorable to acknowledge your mistakes.”

 _“I was wrong_.” His father answered. _“Rather, you are wrong, if you think that apologies alone will save you. You are on the path of self destruction if you think you can shoulder the burden of all your actions. You have done too much to deserve anyone’s forgiveness. Alas, you are still a foolish boy. Moderation, like I’ve always taught you, is the ideal. You should not call yourself a Shinguuji if you cannot learn moderation._ ”

“Moderation…” Shinguuji echoed. Though the words seemed simple, he did not know how to possibly apply them. He did not know how to conceptualize his life in moderation as it was. Still, he continued, “A world of balance is certainly one that is highly desired. Many cultures seek balance as the key to fulfillment. As always, you… are correct.”

 _“Indeed. That is the wisdom I have imparted upon you.”_ His father paused to look at him. _“You have always been obedient, I suppose, and that is your greatest quality. I believed I would have liked to raise you longer, if it could have prevented all of this.”_

“You could not have known, just as I could not have known, the consequences of my actions.” He hesitated, pulling a lock of hair between his fingers and smoothing it out. The regret voiced by his parents had made him sombre. He felt despicable for causing unrest in their hearts even after death. “But while I am here, and while I am able to speak with you in a manner I still cannot quite comprehend, I do wish to know one thing. It has remained a mystery to me for many years, and I hope you will be able to assist me. Why… did you die?”

There was a pause, and the petal his father had been holding slowly drifted to the ground. _“I believe that question no longer requires an answer, don’t you agree?”_

He didn’t disagree aloud, but felt somewhat spiteful of the response. “It is something that is of interest to me. Please, _otou-san_. Could you provide any sort of indication at least?”

 _Was it my fault_ , he wondered, as he had years ago, dressed head to toe in a black suit, fingers wrapped tight around his sister’s cold, trembling hands. _Were you sick of me? Was I not enough for you? Were you disappointed in me? Was it really an accident, or did you leave because you couldn’t stand me– just like everyone else–?_

Despite the way he dropped his head like it was funeral day all over again, his father hardly moved. He was never one to react. Ever calm, ever still.

“ _Why should I?”_

“I’m your—” _son_ wouldn’t leave his lips, no matter how much he willed it to (to make his father proud, to be the heir he was always groomed to be), and after a momentary hiccup, he followed with, “—child. I believe it is in my right to know.”

 _“Ah. So unexpectedly bold of you, Korekiyo,”_ his father mused. “ _To demand an explanation from me, while I am content not to demand an explanation from you, and what you’ve done to yourself.”_

“Please,” Shinguuji said. “Tell me the truth. I hardly know what to believe. I need to know the truth.”

 _“Don’t look so vulnerable. Your emotions make you weak.”_ His father chided gently, instead of answering in proper. The flowers dropped to the floor in a smattering of petals, crushed and ruined. _“The world will pick you apart like that.”_

* * *

Dolls. Akamatsu had called them that – dolls.

Perhaps it would have been laughable if it weren’t true.

Wonderful, beautiful dolls, forced to submit to the doll master’s whims, or was it a puppeteer instead, oh, were they a product of puppetry? Even that might have been delightful, no reason to have memories or be hurt, forced to live out a life without any uncertainties, never to feel too much or be overwhelmed again, to always have the same, manufactured face. Never to be perturbed or disturbed or provoked. To always be picture perfect.

Of course, it would be wonderful, but none of these were his thoughts. His thoughts were clawing at each other, and the weight of it all made his head ache.

Anger was festering amongst them. Breaking the stream that yearned to surrender this form he existed in, anger that he hadn’t known he could ever feel again. At the cruelty of it all, at how inhumane it was to reduce the rich, unlimited potential of a human being to that of a mere doll.

Ah, humanity was so wondrous, so divinely beautiful, and to reduce a human to a plaything without proper reason was —!

He couldn’t help himself. He had to fight her words. Something in him burned for it.

“ _Hate_ humanity? How could I possibly _hate_ humanity?” Shinguuji asked, gaze fixed on Akamatsu’s though neither was willing to back down. “Kukuku… I don’t expect you to understand, but humanity is beautiful, especially in times of turmoil and conflict… yes, that is where it truly shines. In the darkest of hours, I do believe that even what you deem ugly can be so very beautiful. Suffering is but a part of it! Humanity is beautiful!”

Akamatsu’s anger was ripe, too, and perhaps that is what spurred it on. His first interaction in days that felt the slightest bit genuine and real and it was so dense with her anger.

It couldn’t have been anything else.

“You’re pathetic.” Akamatsu said. She only seemed to grow with every word she flung towards him, eyes sharp, spine straightening, unfurling with a confidence he could only hope to possess. “Helplessly clinging onto the role they made you play like that’s all you know… it’s no wonder _Danganronpa_ took a liking to you. Under the mask, you’re nothing, aren’t you?”

“I am not _nothing_ ,” he spat out, but he knew how he sounded. It was a plea to be proven wrong.

“Oh yeah? Who are you then, Shinguuji?”

The answer should have been simple but he couldn’t say a word. For as long as he could remember, he had even been taught what to say, yet none of it would leave his mouth.

He was Shinguuji Korekiyo, first born son and second child of the Shinguuji family, gifted in the soft sciences like his grandfather and an aspiring academic — his father had honed his introduction well — but could he call himself a son or a brother anymore, when there was no father or mother or sister to speak of? And if his identity had always revolved around his family, then who was he without them?

_Mine, of course. Sweet Korekiyo, have you already forgotten? Without me, you are nothing._

“I… am not nothing,” he whispered again, almost wincing at how timid that sounded. Though he was made of much longer limbs and thinner, ganglier features, he felt so much smaller than the girl at his bedside. The thought made him want to cower. Pull away. Hide away.

She knew it, too.

Akamatsu leered, leaning forward enough to force him back into the pillows, barely resisting the urge to turn and bury his face there. He wanted to pull the covers over his head to escape her narrowed eyes, but his pride persisted and held strong and refused to show her that much weakness.

_You’re already weak for feeling so much._

“Sure, sure.” Akamatsu said, and her arms came up as she spoke. “If you say you aren’t nothing, then what makes you who you are? What do you want to do with your life? What are your hobbies, your hopes and dreams? Why are you alive right now?”

“Because…”

He couldn’t answer. Of course he couldn’t.

He hadn’t the will to speak for himself, and he didn’t remember a time he lived for himself, no, suddenly he realized that he could not remember a time when he truly wanted to live for himself, and not just in fear of disappointing others if he died. Laughable, really, it was laughable because he was never the one that deserved to survive.

Fate was a cruel, twisted thing.

Why was he alive? He didn’t have the right to answer a question like that.

He even had to wonder if he had ever been less deserving of free will, considering where it had landed him — undeserving of sympathy, yes, but more than he had ever been before.

Independence wasn’t a privilege he was entitled to.

He had been forcing it down with sugar, hoping the promised sweetness would give his self-sufficiency a delectable taste, but he still wished he could simply surrender control. Be someone better than he was. Be someone who would perform as he was instructed and nothing more than that.

“You’re the perfect kind of doll, that’s what you are.” Akamatsu said, the harshness in her features finally softening once more. “Because your resolve is weak. You have no grasp on your identity anymore and you don’t want to think for yourself.”

He wished to a protest but how incredible it would be if it were possible, to be mindless and unfeeling, to be at the full mercy of another, unable to think, unable to struggle.

Thus, with no room to argue otherwise, he had instead replied, “It would be an easier way to live.”

She grimaced, clearly unenthused. “And a very unfulfilling one.”

“Life is not made for self-satisfaction,” he murmured. This time, the words were not afraid to spill. “In some cases, servitude is an honor. Some people are born for subservience, and haven’t the talent, the skill or the circumstance to speak for themselves. A kind life can be one lived ignorant, as well. You believe free will is a virtue, but your beliefs are also shaped by human values. What is right and what is wrong is truly hard to discern. Don’t you understand?”

“God, you depress me… so, so much…” Her breath came out as a sigh as she ran her hands through her hair. “You’re a massive downer, Shinguuji. It’s making me want to be positive just to spite you, and that’s coming from me of all people. Can you believe it?”

He chose not to reply to that. Akamatsu seemed to understand.

“Whatever.” She said. “You’re in luck. You know our lives as dolls is going to continue, right? _Danganronpa_ is moving us all into our very own dollhouse, so they can play dress-up with our sorry asses and show off their exclusive little human toys to the world. If the whole killing game business wasn’t enough.” She eyed him critically. “Good for you.”

Feeling somewhat ashamed though he had no need to, he bowed his head again, avoiding her gaze. “That’s why you said it wasn’t over.”

“Yeah. It’s a three-year contract for a reason,” she said with a shrug. “That was the deal. Remember?”

It was a distant memory resurfaced.

 _Danganronpa_ owned them until they were done with them, and that was the agreement from the very beginning. They had completely agreed to it, after all that was what an agreement was, to sign their desperation off to a company that thrived on their suffering.

“We were so excited to sign ourselves up. It was the time of our lives, the springtime of our youth,” Akamatsu recalled, “We might as well enjoy the ride, right?”

* * *

After Akamatsu had departed, Shinguuji had felt himself sinking into a feeling of sudden emptiness.

He _had_ signed himself up. Did he dare forget that?

In spite of what people had said, it was his fault he ended up like this. He signed the papers, he stared _Danganronpa_ staff through a camera lens when he had auditioned, he had endured the interviews and the preparations and the grooming and the showings and he was the one that had wanted it to be extreme — he had wanted so badly to destroy himself inch by inch, yes, it was true.

He was his own villain. He had to accept that.

The frustration that simmered within him would not settle. Her anger was his now. Akamatsu’s vivacity had infected him.

“Are you enjoying this?” He had asked. “This _Danganronpa_ life that you had signed up for, just like every single one of us?”

“Of course not,” She had murmured, touching her neck gingerly and quietly explaining that it was hard to enjoy anything when she had to consciously remind herself to breathe sometimes.

He had asked why she’d bother, if it was such a pain and such a frustrating dilemma — for who’s body should forget, even momentarily, how to breathe?

She had repeated the same notion as before.

 _Danganronpa_ would not let them die, and she’d rather fight for her own breath than let them strap her up to machines and feed it to her.

Akamatsu had said many things that on all accounts seemed grim and bleak, but she had said them with such a twinge – or perhaps it was a twang, he was coming to be more pedantic about such terribly insignificant things – of sincere hurt that Shinguuji didn’t fault her in the slightest.

‘Akamatsu had said such-and-such’ was starting to become a prefix to his many thoughts, and he would have been more concerned if he didn’t so crave the human interaction he lacked.

He didn’t realize how familiar this feeling of isolation was until she had finished with their conversation and promptly ducked back out with a promise to at least be back sometime – which could be soon or could be never, but he didn’t have the right to be upset over it either way.

Perhaps it truly would have been easier to live as a hollow ball-jointed vessel, he lamented, because dolls didn’t feel a thing. He could be a soulless mannequin, and he could be rid of these all too human emotions. He wouldn’t yearn for someone to talk to, even if it was to mistreat him.

He was achingly lonely, and he knew he deserved it.

* * *

_My, my, talking of loneliness as though I’m not even here._

_Yes, I am always here, don’t you worry. Yes, talk to me if that is what you desire. You are lonely, aren’t you?_

_But with me, you will never be lonely._

_I am right here. Yes, I am not going anywhere. I love you._

_Always._

* * *

“Goodness, I’m glad you’re finally off of watch. You gave the staff a bit of a scare last time but it seems it was just a one time thing, after all,” Shirogane laughed, lightly but artificially, as if she had forgotten how to conjure up a proper laugh in full. Foolish girl. “I had faith in you, though. Of course, the right measures would have been taken if you showed signs of relapse, but you’re doing well, aren’t you?”

Shinguuji pressed his mouth into a thin line, features shifting behind the mask. Despite having all the feasible time in the world at the moment, he didn’t exactly want to deal with her.

 _Doing well,_ he echoed mockingly in his head. She might have been the most delusional of them all.

“Tell me. What did you come here for?” He asked in a neutral tone. The flame of anger flickered under his skin, but he kept it at bay. Always, he had to remain permissible and polite.

“Ah, business as usual I see,” Shirogane sighed, but quickly recovered from her evident disappointment. “I’m just here to tell you that we’ve deemed everyone capable of heading to the next phase, so hopefully you’ll be more comfortable there.”

“Next… phase?” Shinguuji inquired. Peering at her from the corner of his eye. He would not allow himself to look remotely interested, lest she begin gushing or derailing from the topic. He was so tired.

“That’s right. I assume Akamatsu-san has already informed you,” she replied, tilting her head. “She’s seemed to make a habit of taking my job whenever she can.”

Shinguuji pointedly chose not to reply to this claim, lest his answer came out a little too spiteful. To think, he had once admired Shirogane for her dedication. He had once found her beautiful, in fact, but now she was only beautiful in her absence.

“By inform, I presume you mean about the dollhouse.” He said, recalling Akamatsu’s words.

“Well, it’s not quite… that,” she straightened her glasses, all postured. “But however you wish to call it, yes. We are moving into a more inviting living space, which will accommodate for our needs until we have produced all the promotional content and extras we need to close the season up.”

“Ah, yes, merch season.” Akamatsu interrupted their conversation through the open door, uncaring for the bitter glance Shirogane sent her way. “Gotta start planning all those cash-grabs, eh, Shirogane?”

“Akamatsu-san, I must kindly ask you to leave,” she answered through gritted teeth. “Just because you are physically capable of following me around, it does not mean that you should. I have business to attend to that does not involve you.”

“Oh? Me following you around and watching your every move makes you uncomfortable, does it?” Akamatsu laughed weakly, tone biting. “I sure wonder how that must feel!”

“Please keep your voice down,” Shirogane insisted coldly. “I am trying to have a conversation with Shinguuji-kun.”

“After you just casually happened to ruin his life? You think you’re so innocent, don’t you? _Danganronpa_ this, _Danganronpa_ that, like you don’t have to take the blame for anything you did, when you’re just a coward hiding behind that name, when you’re the one who’s behind all of this…!”

“Akamatsu-san—” Shinguuji and Shirogane both began, before the latter seemed to think the better of it and patted down her skirt, preparing to leave. He hated that he panicked, as if on instinct fearing the abandonment, even though he had wanted Shirogane as far away from him as possible.

She was deplorable, but she was still company.

Shirogane seemed to smile though, seeing his fingers scrape the end of her sleeve. Like she knew. She probably did.

“Shinguuji, what were you going to say?” Akamatsu asked, pointedly ignoring Shirogane. The other girl seemed resigned to that much, not at all disgruntled by anything more than she had been since Akamatsu had shown up.

“Ah… it was nothing of importance. I simply wished to say… while I appreciate your frustrations, I believe that it is fine, that’s all.” Shinguuji told her. “I have already accepted it, so to speak. Please don’t involve yourself in this matter any further.”

Akamatsu’s gaze sharpened, her manner shifted, but after a moment of contemplation, she did not continue that avenue of conversation. Instead, she glanced towards the door and sighed. “Time to go, then. Down the production line.”

“Why must you keep using such analogies?” Shirogane muttered. “ _Danganronpa_ was a choice you all made. Something you desperately wanted to be a part of. Not some plainly boring factory. Not some industry… we are one of a kind…”

Shinguuji exchanged a glance with Akamatsu, noting the rigidity of her jaw as she very stubbornly chose not to reply. Though he knew that it wasn’t true, he started blaming himself for the spike in tension and took it upon himself to remedy it.

“Let us depart.” He said quietly but decisively. “I am sure you have more pressing items on your schedule to attend to, Shirogane-san.”

She looked back at him, a gaze with no presence at all, and made a weightless exit.

Akamatsu stared after her. Contemptuous. Disdainful.

Shinguuji set about pushing off the bed and bridging the few steps to the door — the first truly demanding movement since waking from the simulation — finding quickly that he may not have been capable of it after all. He could barely support his own weight, swaying a little as his head seemed to spin, before he fell with a clatter, knocking aside a chair that had been in the way.

Nothing seemed as far away as the door did in this moment, and as he lay sprawled on the floor, he wondered what was making his body so reluctant to move. He felt a rush of emotion burn through his face, but hurriedly blinked it away with gritted teeth and a long, shuddering breath.

Akamatsu turned back to watch him, almost pitifully. Her eyes, once so vibrant and filled with that raw human beauty of determination and bravery had dulled. Noticing his stare, she smiled faintly. He appreciated the attempt, but deep down, he thought he’d appreciate it more if she didn’t try at all.

This Akamatsu Kaede was not the girl he knew, and he was not about to impress that ideal upon her. That was too dangerous of a hope to have.

“Well?” She raised an eyebrow. “You coming or what?”

He didn’t want to tell her he couldn’t. Yet his body still felt heavy, limbs refusing to budge. Pride, it always came back to pride, he would not admit his weakness to her, even at his own expense.

She seemed to understand.

Wordlessly, she stuck her hand out and pulled Shinguuji to his feet. Hefting his arm over her shoulder, she told him to step into a pair of slippers, and led the way out.

It was a mortifying feeling, he realized. This inability to act freely, which he had seemed to desire before, now felt constricting and disheartening. Though some part of him still resisted the notion, Shinguuji could barely swallow his displeasure.

_Isn’t it easier? Her kindness is commendable, don’t you think? Would you have preferred if she made you crawl out of here? Even here, Akamatsu-san has such a lovely heart._

He dismissed the thoughts this time, too focused on staying upright than to listen to his head convince him that being at the mercy of another was beautiful.

Simply put, he despised it.

He despised leaning on her, despised how useless he felt for having to rely on someone to help him stand, despised how every apologetic murmur was brushed off with such a weary look that he soon stopped apologizing to her altogether.

Shirogane stood at the end of the hall, waiting, before vanishing around the corner without a sound.

They had no choice but to follow.

* * *

“She said a week,” Akamatsu grumbled as she entered the car, not so gently tossing him into the nearest seat. “She could have at least waited until you could all walk on your own. Geez.”

Toujou, who was being held steady by Gokuhara, shook her head. “ _Danganronpa_ has always worked according to the ratings, so Shirogane-san must as well. It is simple economic theory. Where there is demand, she supplies more. She will take us from point A to point B even if she has to drag us along the ground.”

Akamatsu sighed, crawling into the seat beside her. “So I guess you and Shinguuji are in the shits until you can both walk again, huh?”

Momota, already sprawled lazily across the front passenger seat, yawned. “Karma, ain’t it? Loony murder maid and,” he turned to eye Shinguuji skeptically, “Complete and utter fuckhead, I guess, got the worst because they did the worst. Ain’t rocket science.”

“Haha, shut the fuck up, Momota, you’re in the murderer mobile, too. At Ouma’s crushing expense, no less,” Akamatsu laughed, looking around at everyone in the car. “All of you are. Guess you’re all kind of terrible. ‘Cept me, ‘cause I didn’t actually kill anyone.”

“Don’t have to rub it in,” Gokuhara muttered.

“Yeah, Miss Perfect, don’t act so high and mighty,” Momota drawled almost mockingly. “The world fucking loves you and conveniently ignores your shitty murder plan. So what? You won’t get that same treatment from us.”

“The world fucking loves you too, Hero,” Akamatsu replied, rolling her eyes. “It’s a shame they don’t know about your real stellar personality.”

“Only for you, sweetheart,” he grinned. “I’m perfectly nice to everyone else. Aren’t I, Gokuhara? Toujou?”

Gokuhara shrugged noncommittally. “Whatever you say.”

Toujou opted not to reply. Shinguuji didn’t wish to invade her privacy, but he could have sworn he saw a tear fall from her eye as she hurriedly turned to click her seatbelt into place.

“C’mon guys! Give me something! Shinguuji, man, back me up here!”

Shinguuji shrugged as well. He was being addressed. He had to breathe. Maintain calmness. Contribute. Banter. Be positive, _laugh._

“Kukuku… how quaint, if that is what you wish to believe, then I will not stop you. You are most amusing in your ignorance, after all.”

Not like that.

“What? That’s not encouraging at all! C’mon, if all of humanity is sooo beautiful and special to you, doesn’t that include me and this handsome mug? I’m not really feelin’ the love, here. Don’t you love me?”

“...I vaguely feel as though you are mocking me,” Shinguuji murmured, hands folding in his lap and looking askance as he shifted uncomfortably under the sudden accusation. “But for what it is worth, I find you a subject of… interest. I suppose. As I do with all the people I… observe.”

“Yeah, but do you love me or do you love me?”

“Oh my god, space idiot. Stop using Shinguuji as an ego trip,” Akamatsu groaned. “And you, Shinguuji. Don’t encourage him, he’s being an asshole because he’s emotionally constipated and can’t deal with his own problems,” she raised her voice abruptly, diving forward to kick the back of Momota’s seat, “without lashing out at other people!”

“What was that?! Did someone say something?!” Momota seemed to laugh, hardly affected. “Didn’t think you were such a fucking hypocrite, Akamatsu! Don’t think I didn’t see you makin’ some of the girls cry back at the hospital! And don’t even get me started on Shuuichi!”

“Oh, like you made Harukawa cry? You shattered her! Left her in pieces! You’re the actual worst!”

“You’re really low, bringing that up,” Momota responded, stiffening slightly, but he didn’t relent. “Pretty sure Chabashira’s the toughest chick here, and you left the poor thing in tears! Don’t even get me started on Iruma! What did you do to her? Try to bond with her over being choke buddies?”

“You know damn well that isn’t true!” Akamatsu shot back. “What the fuck? Don’t be so insensitive!”

Momota scowled at her, then put up his fingers in quotation marks, “What the fuck was with ‘Ouma’s crushing expense’ then? Don’t pretend you didn’t start it! You’re not fucking innocent, Akamatsu! Stop acting like you are!”

“I threw a ball and missed,” she scoffed. “You dropped a press on a poisoned, bleeding kid and pulverized him.”

“At _his_ demand!”

“Who cares? Murder is murder!”

“Oh, fuck off, Akamatsu!”

“Please stop yelling,” Toujou murmured quietly into her hands. “The driver is here.”

Though her voice was low, the words seemed to silence them. The door opened, and Momota combed back his hair and sat a little more properly in his seat. Akamatsu frowned and crossed her arms.

Their chauffeur didn’t look at them once.

* * *

The ride to their destination was unusually quiet after that.

Having no concept of location, Shinguuji found himself peering out the window, and Gokuhara, who had chosen to sit beside him, followed suit.

He didn’t know what to say to the quasi-entomologist, and it didn’t seem as though Gokuhara wished to start a conversation so they both watched the clouds roll by in silence.

The only disruption came when Toujou offered a bottle of water to them each, looking despondent when they both declined. Akamatsu, to her left, declined also, claiming that it would make her nauseous.

From the front seat, Momota announced that he would take all the rejected bottles, and Shinguuji watched in mild shock as he drained them all, cap to bottom, one by one.

“What are you doing, Momota-kun?” Gokuhara asked in a curious but ultimately uncaring tone. Shinguuji’s fingers curled uneasily in his lap. He didn’t want to admit it but he missed Gokuhara’s softer edges and innocent smiles — it had always been a constant that brought comfort to him. Now it was gone.

“Hey, the Luminary of the Stars has gotta take one for the team,” Momota joked. He was strangely sounding more like himself this time even though he looked like he was barely keeping it all together. The effort would have been more appreciated if his features weren’t as harsh as they were, his hair growing wild, having been left uncut from the time in the simulation. “Anyway. Wouldn’t wanna refuse an offering from our country’s great leader, huh?”

Toujou rolled her eyes, but seemed a lot less tense than before. “Don’t call me that. Also, don’t forget to recycle them when we get there.”

“Roger that, captain.”

“Stop with the names, Momota-kun.”

“Gotcha.”

The sound of the bottles being crushed in Momota’s fists had Shinguuji on edge until they arrived.

* * *

Akamatsu led him inside by the arm again, seeming to half use him as a shield the whole way forward. He didn’t pry. Shinguuji didn’t care as long as he didn’t end up scraped against the concrete, helpless to gravel etching maps into his skin.

She was gone before he could apologize to her.

He didn’t care about that, either.

* * *

The dollhouse they were to live in was a three-storey complex, fully monitored for security purposes. It was simple and functional, not much worth to him as he was never one to care for where he dwelled, and perhaps it was too reminiscent of the school he had recently left.

But there was no grating mechanical sounds outside, nor were there bars on the windows.

Therefore, an improvement. So no, he wasn’t fussed.

After their arrival, he hadn’t taken much time to explore, only peering into darker corridors to locate all the plausible places to hide away should the time call for it — he couldn’t go far without holding onto some sort of railing anyway, so he had to hold off the investigation for the time being whether he had wanted to or not.

The stairs were a challenge, too, and he was only grateful that most of the others were gallivanting off on their own exploration, so he didn’t have to suffer through the mortifying ordeal of tripping up the stairs so much. His very centre of gravity seemed somewhat damaged, and he couldn’t for the life of him make the journey smoothly, almost collapsing on the top of the stairs due to the sheer lack of strength in his legs.

It was paranoia that got him moving. He was terrified of having to start a conversation in this state, where anybody could come across him and he’d have to fumble through an interaction he wasn’t prepared for, and after clinging to the wall and pushing himself down the hallway — crawling part of the way — he located the room with his name on it before stepping in, narrowly avoiding Iruma storming past, and shutting the door behind him.

There, he let himself go, sinking to the ground with a deep sigh. Exhausted of all fumes, he was running low on energy, and almost wanted to faint right there, but he held on. He was lying on the carpet when he spotted it.

A camera was staring at him from the corner of the room. Of course, that rattled him into sudden awareness. Paranoia was all that was keeping him awake.

Rolling his head to the side, he allowed his eyes to wander.

His room wasn’t bare. That was an odd comfort.

In fact, it was full of boxes, remnants from when he had lived before, and he recalled it like a ripple in a puddle. Before it all, when they had lived here to familiarize with each other, and though he remembered little of how everyone had acted back then, he was reminded of lesser things.

Game nights on Tuesdays, _Danganronpa_ marathons on Thursday nights, the way the sound would flow through the building with the dreadfully destructive aura of kids all prepared to murder or die together. A darker time, he would imagine, and yet somehow, a kinder time than this.

He didn’t quite have the strength to unpack, but he forced himself to start anyway. Shaking as he did, he wanted to know what fragments of his life he deemed worthy enough to bring with him — what truly remained of him outside of the world of _Danganronpa_.

The first thing he noticed upon opening the boxes were the spiral bound books and journals. He plucked one from the top of the pile with quivering hands, and felt the worn paper backing, tracing the spine with his fingertips.

He remembered this journal. It was his last one before he took the plunge.

 _Dear Korekiyo,_ it begun.

It was strange yet familiar to flip through words he must have once written in fits of fury or otherwise. The lies he had spun to get what he wanted.

_You belong to Danganronpa now._

_Isn’t that wonderful?_

These words seemed empty, the unspoken fabricated dreams of his past that surely _Danganronpa_ must have read. Now that he considered it, there was no guarantee they didn’t scavenge through his belongings for material to take advantage of, for another tragedy to sell.

_This is what you wanted._

He should remove himself from it, he mused. He shouldn’t remain in custody of anything that would remind him of a time long lost, though he knew that these were the only connections he had to that life. A past life, honestly, it felt so far and transuniversal that even reincarnation would be a more believable tale.

Yet here lay the reality. He existed in the same realm as before, with no home to return to, and no friends to welcome him – not that any would do so, after the spectacle he had partaken in. After the stunts he had been forced to pull.

_But were you forced? If Danganronpa told you this was what it took to get in, would you have said no?_

Swallowing thickly, he set the journal aside, and cast a glassy gaze over the remnants of his past still encased in their cardboard containments.

So lost in thought, he failed to register the knock at his door before it was peeling open, and a familiar face came into view.

“Shinguuji-kun? Do you have a moment?”

He turned to the door, to find Saihara peeking tentatively in.

For a moment, fear shot up his spine — Saihara had been the one to convict him in front of everyone, after all, the one who had ultimately convinced the crowd to send him to his execution.

His executioner. His friend.

Saihara had survived the killing game, too. With Yumeno and Harukawa, the three of them picking themselves up from the rubble to face the clear blue sky. From behind the veil of emotional vulnerability, they had emerged victorious, soft-hearted but brave.

He’d think it incredible if he hadn’t been quelled before he could see it in person. The beauty of survival burned bright even now, life flourishing in the silver eyes of the boy that stood before him.

It was almost too much to face at once.

“What is it you require, Saihara-kun?” He asked in return. He hoped his voice didn’t sound as weak as it felt.

“Oh, well, um, I just wanted to hold a quick get together now that everybody’s here. To… catch up?” Saihara replied, looking slightly nervous himself. “Could you come down for a sec if that’s okay?”

“Ah. Of course,” Shinguuji felt an irritable wave wash over himself as he tried to heft himself up again, but found that he could not.

He had to be careful about being on the floor, it seemed. It was a one way ticket to not being able to rise again. He was reminded of a turtle on its back, and then of fables involving turtles. Then he remembered himself and took hold of one of the boxes to use as a support, and only managed to drape himself over it.

Saihara was staring at him, a little awkwardly, as he tried to pull himself to his feet. After a lengthening moment of silence, he seemed to register Shinguuji’s physical ailment and crept forward, offering his hands out to assist.

More than that, Shinguuji quickly noted how oddly dressed down Saihara was. In a worn black hoodie, he seemed much less put together than he had back at the academy. His stiff, pressed uniform lines had been replaced with distressed and fraying jeans, but feeling it rude to stare, Shinguuji didn’t dwell on it much longer. Instead he took the former detective by the forearms as Saihara dragged him to standing position. They both winced only slightly.

“You’re… you’re still not able to stand on your own?” Saihara asked.

“I have a limited range of movements,” Shinguuji murmured, slightly miffed by the fact that he had to explain. “Supposedly, it is only temporary. Shirogane-san told me it would take a week or so to stabilize.”

“Right.” Saihara nodded stiffly. “Sorry, you got dragged out here before you could get around properly. That isn’t… right.”

“ _Danganronpa_ has never been fussed with doing what’s right,” he replied loftily. “While I appreciate the concern, Saihara-kun, I am fine. You needn’t concern yourself with such trivial matters.”

“No, you’re not, and you don’t … have to be… fine,” the quasi-detective gently slung Shinguuji’s arm over his shoulder, expression pinching in what appeared to be the showings of a mental conflict. “Your emotions may not be stable right now, and that’s okay. You can rely on people if you need to. We’re all here for you.”

“I don’t want to hear your platitudes.” Shinguuji muttered.

He didn’t miss Saihara’s grimace. Though he held onto Shinguuji with care, he surely wouldn’t have done so had he been stripped from the obligation. He banished these thoughts almost as quickly as they came. It would do no good making such snap judgements. He must allow all his former classmates the benefit of the doubt.

“Come on,” Saihara told him but he sounded worlds away, “it won’t take long.”

* * *

Though Saihara had attempted to ease him down, Shinguuji fell into the couch with little grace, and though he was greeted with Saihara’s string of apologies, he felt nothing towards him. He dismissed the former detective with a quick hand, settling in his place beside Gokuhara, who didn’t happen to fashion him more than a cursory glance.

Shinguuji was fine with that. If anyone had started speaking with him now, he was not sure if he knew what words would leave his mouth.

He remained still as the rest of his former classmates – or perhaps they were never his classmates at all, if he were to be perfectly pedantic – trickled in, not one looking companionable in the slightest.

He supposed it was only fair. They were all disoriented from the abrupt location change, and this establishment might have sprung unpleasant memories of a past they wished to forget.

He figured he would simply act the same, ignoring everyone as they ignored him, but his paranoia, again, began to pick at him. He was all too aware of what every person was doing, and felt the increasing urge to note it all down.

Amami, perched on the armrest adjacent to him, twisting his metallic bracelet round and round his wrist. Gokuhara, nervously combing through knots in his long, wild hair. Yumeno, whispering hushed with Angie. Hoshi with his head low, staring at his fists. Toujou sitting stiff as a board. Harukawa with her arms crossed and Akamatsu looming behind her, back against the wall.

Iruma and Chabashira were sitting beside each other in silence, the latter glaring at anyone who dared come within arm’s length of them or Yumeno beside them. Ouma was wheeling back and forth in a wheelchair, overcome by a restless energy, it seemed, and Momota would shake his head but wouldn’t stop him. Shirogane was kneeling on the floor, minding her own business, yet it seemed that Kiibo was nowhere to be found.

“Just so we’re all aware, Kiibo-kun won’t be joining us yet,” Saihara said, seeming to answer the unspoken question before anyone had the chance to verbalize it. “His body is still being calibrated, as his consciousness has to relearn its human functions again. Also, on that note,” he looked around the room. “I’m sure you’re all at least a little bit aware, but Ouma-kun, Toujou-san and Shinguuji-kun are currently in a worse physical state thanks to the simulation, so please don’t make it difficult for them to get around. Alright, let’s make this meeting qui—”

Ouma waved from his wheelchair. “Saihara-chan will absolutely murder you if you tip me over!”

“I will not murder anybody,” Saihara replied exasperatedly, pinching his brow as Momota nudged the side of Ouma’s chair with his knee.

“Don’t interrupt, you brat,” he said.

“Aww, what’re you gonna do, Momota-chan? Kill me?”

“Listen…!”

Ouma giggled, even though nobody was laughing with him. “Oh, wait! You already did! Wow, I can’t believe I let Momota-chan kill me! Geeeez, aw man, talk about embarrassing!”

“Stop talking about killing, you’re being insensitive and annoying.” Yumeno snapped, eyes narrowed at him. She looked immediately apologetic when Ouma recoiled, but did not retract her statement. Chabashira reached out to place a placating hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off, ignoring the dejected look that followed.

Shinguuji tried not to stare. He didn’t have the right.

Saihara gave them all a strained smile. “Please… don’t start any fights, okay? We’re all tired. We’ve all been through a lot. I know we haven’t even come close to settling our differences, but please, even for a little while, can everyone try and get along?”

“But I don’t wanna! Being buddy-buddy is boring!” Ouma whined. “Even just looking at your faces makes me wanna _snore_ … zzz…”

“Let me rephrase that.” Harukawa said, whirling to glare at him. “If anyone here is looking to start trouble, especially you, be prepared for the consequences. Effective immediately.”

Ouma snorted himself awake. “What? You don’t scare me—”

Momota sighed, thwacking him lightly on the back of the head. “Whatever. Shuuichi and I will keep this little shit in line, so everyone else, fear Harumaki or… get fucked, I guess.”

“Don’t call me that.” Harukawa hissed. “You’re not – you’re not _him_ , you don’t deserve to—”

“Oh, come on. Really? We’re going to have this argument in front of everybody here? Like Shuuichi said, we’re all tired, Harumaki—”

“I said, don’t call me that!”

“Come on, guys, please!” Saihara exclaimed helplessly.

“Yeah, come on, don’t fight,” Akamatsu sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Learning nothing from your mistakes is just another way you people all seem to disappoint me.”

The room suddenly seemed much colder.

“Akamatsu-san,” Saihara ventured gently, “I’m sorry, we couldn’t grant your wish, even after all that.”

“You think I care about that?” She eyed him critically. “I’m sorry that I gave you the wrong idea when you woke up and you thought we were all rainbows and sunshine. I missed you, Shuuichi, but I barely knew you. You barely knew me then, and you sure as hell don’t know me now.”

“Thank you for your input, Akamatsu-san.” Saihara looked pained, but said no more on the subject. “Apart from that, I’m going to have to ask everyone to please respect each other and _especially_ do not provoke or start arguments with anyone. We are not here to hold grudges.”

All too aware of his surroundings, Shinguuji didn’t miss Chabashira eyeing him for a long, long moment, before turning her head away.

“You done yet, beta boy?” Iruma asked, fidgeting incessantly with her hair. “I’m fuckin’ brain dead from all the screwin’ around today.”

“Almost.” Saihara answered, expression tight. “I’m just going to point out the important things. Maps of the building are on your tablets if you need to find anything and you have automatically scheduled reminders for meal times and times you’ll be required to show up at certain places, but more on that as it comes up. You’re free to wander anywhere you want, but you cannot leave the premises unless you’re being supervised… isn’t that right, Shirogane-san?”

“Yes,” she nodded in agreement even though nobody looked her way. “Until your contract is complete, you have all agreed to be monitored, so that we can keep track of your whereabouts and so you’re all safe.”

“If anybody is experiencing any issues whatsoever, please don’t hesitate to come to me or Harukawa-san,” he said, then after a long pause, he added, “Or Shirogane-san, if it’s a _Danganronpa_ related issue that we can’t help with.”

Shirogane waved, but it was stiff and uncomfortable. Everybody avoided her gaze still.

“There are staff around, too,” she added quietly. “You should be able to call an attendant straight to your room if you ever need it. Everyone is here to help.”

There was no response. Shinguuji saw Akamatsu’s mouth curl into a triumphant smirk. He couldn’t help but feel the same way, and he’d have guessed that they all were in agreement of that except, well — except Amami, it seemed, who leaned down to whisper something into Shirogane’s ear which made her relax considerably.

“He’s one of _them_ ,” Gokuhara muttered quietly, seeming to follow Shinguuji’s line of sight. “Probably agreed to get offed from the start. Couldn’t take another round of it. Got an easy out.”

Shinguuji felt his gut twist a little at that.

With all that had been happening, he had almost forgotten that they weren’t the first to play this game — and that for some of them, this wasn’t their first time, either.

He didn’t think he could handle another killing game. His whole body grew tense as drawn wire at the thought.

“We done _now_ , emo detective?” Iruma complained. “I gotta piss real bad.”

Ouma scoffed at that. “Good, go choke on the toilet paper while you’re at it, you filthy shit-eating cum dumpster. That’s all you were ever good for, anyway.”

“Fuck, I should’ve murdered you when I had the chance, ya greasy little shitstain! You think this is a fucking joke? You think I’d come and play along with our little banter after what you did?”

“What did I do, huh, tits-for-brains? You betrayed me.”

“ _You_ betrayed _me_!”

“Oi! Guys!” Momota yelled, pulling Ouma’s wheelchair back before he could do anything as foolish as trying to run Iruma over with it. “Cut it out! Now is not the fuckin’ time!”

Iruma cowered at that, burying her face into Chabashira’s side as the former aikido master narrowed her eyes at Momota and snapped, “Don’t raise your voice, degenerate. Ouma-san made some terrible comments, and he should be ashamed of himself.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ouma spat. “Or don’t. I don’t want to hear you talking anymore. Disappear.”

His tone was enough to spur Chabashira forward, and the only thing stopping her palm from striking him across the face was Yumeno’s grip on her wrist, disapproval burning fierce in her expression.

“You’re the worst,” Chabashira said instead, backing off.

She was mockingly dismissed by Ouma’s wave, and a sneer of, “Wimp.”

Nobody seemed to know what to do but watch. Saihara, seeming to read the atmosphere and finally deciding to intervene, cleared his throat and began to speak again, leaping to mitigate it as best he could.

“... a-anyway!” His voice cracked, “That’s all for now! Please rest up until further notice. Thank you.” He coughed a little nervously as Ouma and Chabashira glared daggers at each other, “You can leave now, but if you need help–”

“Yo, Amami,” Akamatsu called, ignoring the rest of Saihara’s sentence as he meekly dropped into a whisper and was given a firm pat on the back by Harukawa. The others began to slowly disperse without further prompting. “Stay back with me, I wanna talk.”

“Okay,” Amami shrugged, and hopped off the armrest, smiling sheepishly at Shinguuji when the sudden movement startled him. “Oops, sorry about that.”

“Ah, no, it is perfectly fine—” barely left his mouth before he felt a sudden dizziness strike him and his vision blurred for a moment, but he endeavored to keep himself upright. “It’s… fine. It’s fine.”

Amami shot him one last concerned look before he was towed away by Akamatsu, who was making shooing motions at Shirogane behind his back. Shirogane paid them no heed, slipping past Toujou as she disappeared into the hallway.

“Shinguuji-kun,” Gokuhara offered his hand, empathy seeming to win out on him this time. The kindness in his eyes was so unmistakably Gokuhara that he could have believed it. “Let Gonta help you back up stairs.”

After a reluctant pause, Shinguuji — despising the feeling of helplessness more and more by the second — took his hand and allowed it.

* * *

Gokuhara had given up guiding him halfway up the stairs, not one for patience anymore it seemed, opting to lift him directly and carry him the rest of the way — and after a sly remark by Ouma, Shinguuji covered his face with his hands and hoped that he could find a better solution to getting around soon.

Briefly, he considered just lying in his room forever, never having any contact with anyone, but even he knew that was impossible. He was not brought here to rot alone. Even if he wanted to, _Danganronpa_ would not allow it.

He thanked Gokuhara quietly after he was unceremoniously dumped into his bed, and the former entomologist straightens to his full height.

For a moment, Gokuhara seemed to still, taking in the minor details of the room.

“Shinguuji-kun should probably unpack everything soon,” he said. “Gonta found a moldy banana in one of his boxes. Old me must’ve thought that’d give Gonta a little surprise when he got back. Not even a good prank.”

“I’ll say.” Shinguuji replied thinly. “You know, I never did quite pin you as a trickster.”

“Not really trickster,” Gokuhara laughed, waving him off with a sad smile. “More like, just a bad person.”

“I can’t say I can imagine you being a bad person, either.”

“Yeah? Nobody’s ever said that to Gonta before,” He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks, Shinguuji-kun. Gonta also doesn’t think you’re a bad person, even if you are a murderer.”

Shinguuji felt his whole body tense at the accusation, but he could not deny it. He could not even return the jibe, for he had not the courage to speak against a man that could feasibly crush his skull between his hands. Even if he may have truly been gentle. Even if he was Gokuhara Gonta, entomologist and gentleman-in-training. Even if he only wore Gokuhara’s face like a skin he was yet to grow accustomed to.

“Well, goodnight,” Gokuhara said, as if he didn’t know the damage he had done. Perhaps he had meant it to hurt, from one killer to another, but Shinguuji couldn’t fathom the idea of Gokuhara wanting to hurt anyone. Not even after knowing he had strangled Iruma until she took her last breath.

“Goodnight to you too, Gokuhara-kun,” Shinguuji replied. Gokuhara was not gentle with the door. The slam of wood rung painfully in his ear.

Until it didn’t, anymore, and Shinguuji lay sprawled on this unfamiliar bed, staring up at the blank ceiling, feeling nothing. Disconnected, that was what it was. He felt disconnected from the world. From reality.

As if without a witness, he no longer existed.

_I am always watching over you._

He sighed behind his mask, letting his eyes fall shut.

_Sweet dreams, Korekiyo._

His energy had dissipated.

As if in a haze, his thoughts were swimming incoherently, not one relating to another, and even attempting to think about anything deeper had his mind muting it out, opting to continue its senseless whirlpool until he let it rest.

Feeling drained, he slunk beneath the covers without even thinking to change, and willed himself to fall asleep.

It came easy, this time, like his brain had simply elected to shut off, but he should have known that it wouldn’t last.

* * *

He dreamt of blackbirds swarming around a familiar pier. They had no image in the water, simply circling a red sky above his head, in wait for something.

There emerged a white hand reaching out to him from the water, urging him to take it, pulling him forward, tugging and tugging until his foot almost slipped off the edge of the rotting wood.

He looked up, wondering if there was anything around that could help him, but all he would see was fog. The blackbirds were gone.

 _“Trust me.”_ The waves seemed to whisper. _“Surrender your inhibitions. Allow me to guide you.”_

He closed his eyes. There was no sound.

In here, his death rewinded, his flesh growing solid again and the steam leaving his skin cold. Here, he bled through his skin, and the blood turned to water on the pier and evaporated. The tightness in his throat unshackled him, his chest freeing itself from the binds he couldn’t see, and he could breathe. The harvest from his lungs, flowing through teeth and jaw, ripping the mask from his mouth and finding liberation.

He fell into the water, and woke with a start.


	4. Rain Rain Go Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what people are saying about me,” Shinguuji murmured. His nails bit into his palms. Some of his hair fell back over his shoulder, obscuring part of his face from view. “I completely understand if nobody wants to associate with me after all of that.”

_“Hello... excuse me, have you seen nee-san_?”

The child that approached him looked startlingly familiar.

Hair smooth and straight, cut into a neat bob, features thin but soft – eyes wide with an innocence that was almost biting. Familiar, yes, but it couldn’t be who he thought it was. It simply wouldn’t make sense.

 _“Hello...?”_ They greeted again, awkwardly slotting their fingers together in front of themselves, looking like they wanted to curl up and hide. “ _Um, sorry, can… can you hear me?”_

“Ah, yes, hello.” Shinguuji replied with a slightly astonished delay. Peculiar that he forget his manners now, he mused, as he was usually more considerate with children, but perhaps the appearance of this one in particular was still puzzling to him. He attempted to blink the uncertainty away. Regardless of its suspected origin, it would have to wait. “My deepest apologies, dear. I have not seen anyone in the time I have been sitting here. Though I have not been sitting long, either, if that serves as any consolation.”

They smiled gently, assumed by the squinting of their eyes behind the surgical mask they were wearing, before their face resumed a neutral expression once more.

 _“... I see… thank you.”_ Pause. Shinguuji counted to four. The child shuffled their feet nervously. _“Um, sorry, can– can I ask you another question?”_

“Oh?” He inclined his head. “But of course. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”

 _“Why are you sitting here by yourself? It’s dangerous to be on your own, isn’t it?_ ”

“Mm, I suppose it can be, however I am rather able to look after myself, I assure you.” Shinguuji said, picking a little absentmindedly at his nails. “Perhaps more importantly, aren’t you on your own as well? Is that dangerous to you?”

 _“No, I came out here with nee-san.”_ They shifted backwards a bit, looking slightly distressed. Their arms fluttered up to hold themselves, grip tight and defensive as they avoided Shinguuji’s gaze. _“She wanted to see the garden. She– she’s not allowed to be alone, so I have to find her. Can you help? Wait, no, sorry, am I bothering you? Sorry… I can go. I will go. I mustn’t bother people. She would be disappointed. I can’t disappoint her, I–”_

“It’s quite alright, you know.” He reached out towards the child, only for them to recoil tighter.

 _“I’m sorry for disturbing your peace. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”_ Their voice drops to a whisper. “ _Will you forgive me?”_

“If it will be reassuring, then yes, you are… forgiven.” Shinguuji felt his stomach churn as they screwed their eyes shut, but leaned forward to lightly rest his hand on their shoulder, fully ready to pull back if it was unwanted. The child clutched onto his hand immediately, looking worriedly up at him. “I hope this is an acceptable question to ask, as I am quite curious, but feel free not to answer. Why is your _nee-san_ not allowed to be alone?”

 _“Um, because she’s really sick, and hurts when I’m not with her,_ ” the child said. Their fingers wrapped firmer around his hand. _“Can you help me? I don’t want her to be hurt. I have to be with her always.”_

He nodded a little too quickly. The words seemed to hit harder than he had anticipated as he felt his stomach churn again, this time with a layer of understanding. Perhaps too much.

“Of course, I can offer my assistance for whatever it is you require, however, could– and I hope this isn’t too presumptuous, but– could I ask you for your name first?”

 _“I shouldn’t tell you, but it’s Korekiyo_.” The child replied, tipping his head to the side and counting the syllables on one hand. Their tone suddenly seemed to change, the childlike innocence falling away into something colder. “ _Ko-re-ki-yo. But it doesn’t matter. I think you already knew that, didn’t you?_ ”

Shinguuji swallowed thickly, pulling back. Perhaps too much understanding, indeed.

“I– I suspected, but what are you doing— no, how are we–”

“ _Doesn’t matter._ _The fact that you’re seeing me here means that you know too, don’t you?_ _I’m a ghost, or something like that. Not really a ghost. But ghost is easier for you to understand, right?”_ The young Korekiyo asked him, gaze gleaming. _“Just like all the others. None of these visions are real.”_

Shinguuji closed his eyes, arms wrapping around himself instinctually. Then, upon recognizing that they were sharing habits, he broke free from the hold, and inhaled sharply in an attempt to collect himself. He picked at his nails again, more frantically this time, scratching at his cuticles with shaky hands.

“You… of course. Of course, you are a ghost,” he trembled, and swallowed again, but it kept feeling like he couldn’t breathe. The panic rested just beneath the surface, and he refused to give into it.

He exhaled.

The air wouldn’t come out.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Then, calm.

“Of course.” He muttered, brows furrowing. “That makes sense. You are all merely ghosts. Wonderful. How wonderful. Ghosts are rather lovely, are they not?”

 _“You know that everyone you’ve seen in this… place, isn’t real or even really a ghost, Korekiyo,”_ the child’s voice was almost taunting. _“You know that, don’t you? Everyone here is dead, but you’re not haunted by them. That would be too kind. The truth is that they are no longer with you. They never will be. You had to have known that, already._ ”

“If… if everyone in this realm is dead,” he began, opening his eyes again to gaze at the child in a mild, understated horror; laced with a morbid curiosity he could hardly contain. How fascinating. How terrifying. How beautiful. How dreadful. “Then why are you here?”

 _“Oh, right._ ” He said, tapping his cheek idly. _“That’s easy. You’ve already killed me.”_

* * *

He was drowning until the world came back into focus.

Sitting up, he shook with the fear of its return, of the waves washing over him with a vice grip on his throat, swallowing his suffering. Relishing in it. He was helpless to a creeping dread that would not surrender, no matter how tightly he squeezed his hands together.

He needed reprieve from the suffocation, needed a distraction but he hadn’t the sliver of idea where to find one, and none of the unopened boxes in his room seemed safe anymore.

Anything that cast a shadow in his room seemed menacing, all of a sudden. He had never been afraid of the dark, but even a single shaky step onto the carpet seemed as though he was walking closer and closer towards the water again, seconds away from slipping in.

Anything could be lurking, could crawl up from the depths and drag him under.

He was terrified. He needed to get out of here.

But he couldn’t move.

* * *

_Let me help you, dear Korekiyo._

_If you are ever afraid or lonely, please remember that I have always been here for you._

_Loving you, always._

* * *

With shaking hands, his nails scraped the edge of his mask, a familiar yet chilling comfort.

“Korekiyo.” He said slowly and it was his voice even if he did not feel like it was. It was consciously his. He knew it was. It had to be. “Korekiyo. You will be alright. Do not become emotional. All of this will pass.”

_Very well said, darling._

He nodded, arms wrapping like vines around himself.

He was in control. He was still in control. Why did it feel so disgusting to be in control? Because he was himself and nobody else? His hands felt so exposed without the bandages he wanted to cry. They were so ugly. He was so ugly. But he was in control.

That wasn’t reassuring.

He wasn’t meant to be in control.

He didn’t know how to be, anymore.

He squeezed himself tight, shaking his head.

“It is as you taught me. I am always overreacting. There is nothing to—”

 _She’s not your sister,_ hissed one part of his brain, _she’s Danganronpa’s way of controlling you._

 _Dearest Korekiyo,_ she said so beautifully. So sweet. She was so much kinder to him. He held onto that. _You must be calm. Do not waver. Do not show weakness._

“I am calm.” He said.

_Do not lie to me, my darling. I know you. This is not your calm._

“I must… find space to breathe now. I will not be emotional. I will not overreact.”

_Let me take control._

“I cannot burden you like that. I am not worthy of your care. I will deal with this, _nee-san_.”

_Insolent child. You don’t even know what ‘this’ is. Lean on me. I am all you have._

He took a step forward.

It felt like he was shattering already, but he clenched his teeth and persisted. One foot in front of the other. He just had to relearn his movements thoroughly. That was all he needed to do. Pain shot up his leg with another step. He deserved it. For not giving her what she wanted, he deserved it.

But he couldn’t let her have this pain. He couldn’t let her feel how it hurt to breathe, to move, to walk – how much it hurt just to be alive. She should never be subjected to a feeling like that ever again.

For her, he would endure all of it.

He would grant her everything but his pain.

He was exhausted, so very, very tired, but he kept moving. The carpet felt like gravel under his fragile feet, but he kept moving.

Feared that if he didn’t, he would forget how to.

Feared that if he didn’t, he’d never move again.

They were irrational thoughts but it didn’t matter. He took a deep breath and forced himself to walk. Tremble. Walk. Move forward. Keep walking. Don’t fall. Don’t hesitate. Don’t show weakness. Don’t be a burden. Don’t be so troublesome. Stop existing already.

_Nobody wants you here but me, anyway._

_No matter what happens, I will love you, always._

His fingers met the coolness of the door handle and he stepped outside.

* * *

It was like breaking a spell how quickly his body started shaking once he did.

There was nothing that would have triggered it and yet he felt impossibly small without the protection of his door, and all the determination he had was swiftly waning, turning to dust.

His movements were clumsy and he stumbled around like a newborn fawn in the dreary hallway. It was a calamitous act, knocking into almost every wall he passed and biting down on his lip to muffle audible sounds of distress, but he needed to move. Needed to run as far as he could.

A necessity he hadn’t felt in a long time. He could feel her stirring, crawling just beneath his skin. Gently, she prodded, always so deceptively sweet. Romantic as her words were, however, he kept reminding himself to stay in control.

He had to stay in control. Even if it was terrifying and felt ugly and wrong, he had to.

He couldn’t be a burden to her, anymore. She shouldn’t have to take care of him, anymore.

But her words kept pounding in his mind, like nails on his skin, like fingers pulling at his hair, like the sting of her hand against his cheek. Lovingly, of course. All out of love. Intense, wonderful, incomprehensible love.

 _Let me take over for you, dearest,_ she whispered so tempting, _let me be your arms, your legs, your eyes, your mouth, your heart, your soul, your body will be mine, mine, mine–_

There was distant sobbing beyond the walls around him, and the halls howled like there were poltergeists in the rafters, but Shinguuji paid it no heed. He was unwelcome. Unwanted. He had always been. Despite all his intentions, he could not help anybody, and there was beauty in that helplessness but he was not beautiful.

He had sacrificed his only beauty, his humanity, for this. All of this. Despicable.

Pitiful that he wished to retreat now.

Cowardice didn’t suit him, but he longed for it.

Ached for its relief.

He had no chance of escaping this place – not that he would attempt such a foolish act under the light of the cameras blinking in the dark, of course. They stood out even in the blanket of the night.

_Your voice, your hands, your ears, your lungs, mine, mine, mine–_

His breath hitched when he heard a floorboard creak beneath him, and his ugly hands came up to clap tight over his mask as he struggled not to make a sound. He was always such a disturbance, such a waste of space, he shouldn’t have come here, he shouldn’t be alive–

_Korekiyo, please, you are crafted in my vision, I have made you beautiful and I can make you beautiful again! Listen to me! You’ll do as I say, won’t you? Just like always. Because you love me, and I love you, and we are destined to be together. Just us. Just you and I._

He had to find somewhere to calm down, and it seemed he would find no such place here.

_Let me take care of you, you are such a sorry sight, my love, but I will assist you, I will teach you what it means to feel human, to be beautiful–_

Even the haziness of the night could not hide the way the rooms seemed to shake with the sorrow within, stealing all life in a sinkhole of overwhelming dread and… despair. His eyes darted up at the briefest utter of his name, before he saw Yumeno’s trail of red hair duck behind a corner. It had grown in rivers down the expanse of her back due to all the time spent in the simulation. Red, red rivers.

_Sweet Korekiyo. You know that I can help you. Won’t you let me take control? Rest. Relent._

He drew a strand of his own hair over his shoulder to examine, the sheer length of it a mild concern to him that he would likely address at a later point in time, brows furrowing as he considered his next course of action.

_Why, you were always such an obedient little brother. Let me control you. Korekiyo._

It pained him to disappoint her, but he couldn’t give her any more pain. If she felt the way it hurt to walk and feel and move and breathe again, it would be terribly upsetting for the both of them.

How he wished to be healthy, so that she could use him thoroughly and painlessly and everything would be just the way it was before.

Weren’t things better the way they were before? Why did he wake up? He should have stayed in the simulation for eternity, with her.

_You are so considerate. I suppose I will allow this for your sake, but remember you are mine, won’t you? You will always be mine._

He nodded. That decision wasn’t his to make.

As far as his own decisions went, he finally decided he might direct his course to the kitchen. A simple excuse if he required it. He did not recall the last time he had food or water, though it was likely a matter of the meals being forgettable rather than having not ingested them at all.

He pushed onwards down the stairs — more accurately, he had all but fallen his way to the first floor — not wanting to linger on the thought.

Had he eaten today? Did he need to eat? He wasn’t sure, anymore.

From his earlier inspection, he knew the kitchen was just past the lounge and dining area; the two having been split by a strip of linoleum. He hesitated at the entrance of the lounge, taking in the sight of the living space at night, before tentatively creeping forward.

Nervously, he adjusted the mask on his face, using it as a brace for anything that might leap out at him, despite knowing well that it had no protective properties whatsoever.

Terrible, terrible, terrible, he couldn’t even protect himself, he didn’t even want to, someone should just come and kill him, plunge his head into the floor, boil him alive, beat him, flay him, whip him, let him die, just let him die–

“Is someone there?”

Shinguuji froze, and retreated back behind the wall. He spent a few seconds there, static in time, before he peered around the corner tentatively, fingers clawing at the plaster that kept him hidden – careful not to reveal himself. Only to look. Only to assess the situation. The danger.

Danger, danger, danger.

 _Amami,_ he registered quickly, taking in the dim blue light that washed over tired but familiar features.

_Leave him be. You are only going to get in his way. You are an inconvenience. He does not want to talk to you. Leave him be._

“Hey, whoever you are, I’m not gonna bite you or anything,” Amami said softly, and with a quiet click, his tablet shut off, leaving them both in pitch darkness. “Of course, if you prefer to stay over there, that’s fine, too. But don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

Shinguuji felt his hands curling into fists against the wall as he bit his lip again, desperately pleading to rewind the situation so he never came down here in the first place. He was only going to be a bother. A burden. He had to go.

He had to go, but he couldn’t move.

“Oh, and I promise that despite what this all looks like, I’m not a suspicious guy,” Amami laughed airily. Characteristic. Familiar. He remembered this. Though vague, he remembered.

_He doesn’t want you here. Leave._

Shinguuji held himself tighter, wanting to shrink away and disappear.

_Why would Amami-kun waste his time on someone like you?_

He closed his eyes for a moment.

That was true. Nobody should have to waste their time on him. Especially not Amami.

Not _Danganronpa’s_ most beloved, beautiful doll.

Yes, it had only now occurred to him that this was _Amami Rantarou_ , longest ongoing character recycled, killing game extraordinaire. The reckless, thrill-seeking adventurer. The cryptic, paranoid survivor. The amnesiac survivor-adventurer.

Incarnation after incarnation, _Danganronpa’s_ favorite toy.

And he was a real, live, breathing person.

He tried to banish the thought, but it had already taken to his brain, uprooting the memories he barely identified as his own.

 _Danganronpa_ ’s survivor sweetheart, oh yes, the billboard boy for the trainwreck that was _DR52,_ the very one that smiled so bitterly into the camera in that final blazing trial, asking, “Do you know the lengths I’ll go to survive?” before the metal clamped around his throat and the screen went black.

Amami Rantarou, a centerpiece of incredible misfortune, caught in the crossfire of circumstance and coincidence, who had last been broadcasted dead in the basement library.

The deceased, alive.

Suddenly, the portrait in the class trials seemed more of a mockery than anything. A trick by _Danganronpa_. He had to continually remind himself it wasn’t an apparition.

He almost stepped out then – a foolish, impulsive move fueled by an emotionally exhausted mind – before another thought struck him.

Amami was part of _Team Danganronpa._

The ones that did this to them.

If he seemed remotely dangerous in the simulation, it was nothing compared to now.

He wondered why these thoughts were striking him here. Amami had been cordial earlier, and had never raised a cutting remark or a disdainful look against him, in simulation or out. Perhaps the night had left him too vulnerable for an encounter like this.

Yet the intrigue in him didn’t settle.

He did not have the capacity to pry in this fragile state, but he felt the urges with a thorough intensity, one which desired to learn all there was to know. He yearned to find answers.

It was a foolish, hasty move, yes, but he crept into the room with shaky steps, and it came to no surprise that he was noticed immediately, though he didn’t fault Amami for his caution.

He had thoroughly learned his lesson about trusting others, especially in the dark.

That, of course, coupled with the fact that Shinguuji could not stop walking into godforsaken walls and being a general disturbance by virtue of existing, but he kept that minor frustration to himself.

“Oh geez, sounded like you just took quite the hit there. Knocking the walls down isn’t the greatest of escape plans, y’know,” Amami remarked, sounding part-way between amused and perplexed. “Look, are you okay? Want me to turn the lights on?”

Shinguuji knew that speaking would reveal himself immediately, but as cautious and light as possible, he murmured, “... no.”

He endeavored not to flinch when Amami tapped his tablet back to life, but was surprised that it was angled away from him, so that none of the light would fall on him. Instead, the blue glow remained gentle over Amami’s face, as though he knew somehow that allowing Shinguuji to assess his expression while they spoke would relieve the tension just a little more.

It was likely a coincidence, but Shinguuji’s mind could not help but imagine he genuinely cared. He stifled the thought immediately.

“Couldn’t sleep, Shinguuji-kun?” Amami asked in an impersonal tone, once again soft enough not to completely disturb the quiet. Despite the tired edge to his voice, he looked as alert as ever. “You did seem a little out of it earlier. You know the best way to ease your mind is to get some rest, right?”

“Ah, yes. Well…” Shinguuji shuffled his feet in place, tucking his hair behind his ear, avoiding looking at him because for second, it all became too overwhelming.

He loathed that starstruck feeling that surged through him — reminding him that he was talking to _Amami Rantarou_ (the adventurer had been on countless magazine covers, banners the size of buildings, seasonally relevant memorabilia, et al.) who was a real live person, an actual human being, how insanely compelling that very concept was — but what he loathed even more was the sick recollection of how Amami died replaying in his mind on repeat.

How Shinguuji had stood so calmly over his classmate’s body.

How he had been so eager to converse with his corpse for his own anthropological interests.

How he wanted to bridge the gap between them right this moment and find the indent in his skull that he knew wasn’t real.

How none of these thoughts felt like his own, but they were.

Sickening as it was.

He cleared his throat. He would have to endure it. One interaction at a time.

“I… do suppose you’re right. However, I did happen to take a nap earlier. When I slept. A little. Though it was not a restful sleep, it was a moment of peace. Which was welcome, as it was all I could manage for the time being.” He tried not to wince at the lack of flow to his words, something he had usually prided himself in but couldn’t manage at present for the life of him.

“Pretty good for a first night, all things considered,” Amami replied.

His posture seemed to relax, which was puzzling, because Shinguuji would have thought his presence to be a little more alarming than that.

“Ah. I suppose you could say so. Thank you.”

“Haha, what’re you thanking me for?” He smiled, and it was such a minuscule gesture to focus on but Shinguuji was transfixed with it. He couldn’t smile even a fraction, could not force it from his mouth, and yet Amami could do so without even as much as a moment of hesitation, like he hadn’t gone through multiple killing games and was murdered with blunt force for continuity purposes – so quickly, all for the sake of entertainment.

Curious. Careless, as well.

Shinguuji spotted a vase nearby that he could have bashed his head in with if he wasn’t careful.

He wouldn’t do it, but he was almost envious about how little Amami seemed to care.

“Hey, y’know, that reminds me,” Amami started without being prompted, voice low and drifting through the room rather effortlessly. “Usually when people see someone that’s supposed to be dead moving around in the dark, they scream or something, don’t they? Aren’t you afraid?”

Shinguuji didn’t admit the thought had never even crossed his mind. He also did not admit that somewhere within him, the thought that he could speak to the dead was quite thrilling, anyway.

Somehow, he could feel her smiling.

“I am not afraid.” He said. “Besides, I had already met with the others previously, and you were there also, so had I the fear in the first place, I would have learnt to internalize any shock from such a scenario.”

“Man, that just steals all the fun,” Amami rolled along the couch, laughing lightly. “I guess you’re right. But still, scaring you would have been interesting, I should have brought a fog machine or something. Special effects, background music, some platform to stand on as I descend from the roof… it would’ve been more exciting than this, huh?”

Shinguuji blinked. “That would have been absolutely unnecessary.”

“Really? Why? It would have been scary, right? Wouldn’t you have screamed if I suddenly emerged from the fog?”

“No, because I do not _scream_ and that sounds entirely ludicrous,” Shinguuji replied with an extreme decisiveness. He registered somewhere that Amami was simply trying to 'lighten up the mood', but he hadn’t the mental capacity or social comfort at present to humor him. He despised himself for it, too. “If you are seeking to play pranks on people, perhaps you could find more willing targets in future. I am near certain that Ouma-kun at least will find plenty more amusement in these such antics than I will.”

Amami seemed slightly alarmed by his tone, and his expression softened. “Hey. I’m sorry for messing around, I just thought I could– no, never mind. Seriously though, are you okay?”

Shinguuji mulled over it, knowing he shouldn’t be so scrupulous about the choice of wording, but he couldn’t help it.

Was he okay? Yes, he was 'okay' in the sense that he knew he wasn’t in any immediate danger nor was he undergoing any peculiar difficulty that was unexpected, either. His breathing had at least calmed down, and he was no longer shaking, at least, though his skin was riddled with goosebumps, which was only a minor inconvenience.

Was he okay? No, also no, because he was not in any way remotely satisfied with how he was feeling, or felt it acceptable to be feeling this way, but he had no need to burden Amami with his personal distress.

He must have spent too long pondering this though, because Amami spoke up again.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he said. “But some things are better to get off your chest, right? Even if it’s a little bit, it might help. I know these things don’t go away overnight.”

He bit his lip nervously before offering in a meeker tone, “... perhaps that is so, however I shouldn’t bother you with troublesome emotions. I don’t wish to disturb you. I apologize for not considering the consequences of my actions. You have no need to concern yourself with me. Please understand that I do not wish to cause you any undue stress.”

“That’s nice, Shinguuji-kun,” He hummed in acknowledgement (and was it acknowledgement at all, since Amami seemed to have tuned out most of his prattle), looking thoughtful for a moment before patting the empty space beside him. “But anyway, you wanna come sit with me? I can’t guarantee I have any magical cures up my sleeve, but I’m willing to talk, if you’re up for it.”

Shinguuji fell silent, and though he figured this was a perfect opportunity to leave, his throat stung with the urge to speak, as though a fraction of his already segmented soul had no intention of leaving the matter be.

“I get it if you don’t, haha,” Amami continued, other hand tapping his fingers on the side of the tablet, the only sign that he was even a little less composed than usual. “I can’t say I make a very trustworthy person, considering you know I’m from _Team Danganronpa_ and all. I’m not gonna make an effort to hide that from you.”

“Ah, no, that is- well, I don’t particularly mind. It is fascinating, rather… yes, that aspect of you intrigues me,” Shinguuji admitted truthfully, taking a hesitant step towards him. His nerves were significantly less alight the longer the conversation went on. “And I do remember watching your other seasons, though the minute details escape me at the moment.”

“Right. That’s to be expected,” Amami nodded, smiling again. His eyelashes brushed the top of his cheekbones so perfectly. “Your old memories are still forming themselves. Though you have the added advantage of being one of the first ones they decided to give them back to.”

“Naturally, because they were afraid of me.”

Amami’s tapping stopped. “Hey, why don’t you sit down?”

Shinguuji obeyed, only because he felt the sudden obligation weighing down on him.

It was only courtesy.

Still, he kept a wary distance from Amami, not enough to raise suspicion, but, quite frankly, he was not keen on making contact with him at this point in time. He had never been a very physical person, or more honestly, he might as well be starved dry of connection but knew that most others did not welcome his touch.

And the ones who did were never gentle.

Thoughts of all the people who had touched him swarmed his mind and he shivered. Thinking back, he didn’t understand why he had been so desperate to cure his loneliness with human contact, when in the end, none of it had any substance at all.

But he couldn’t regret it. There was something beautiful about that, too.

Amami took no notice of his turmoil, only setting his tablet aside and angling to face him, expression inquisitive. “Why do you think they’re afraid of you?”

“You know what people are saying about me,” Shinguuji murmured. His nails bit into his palms. Some of his hair fell back over his shoulder, obscuring part of his face from view. “I completely understand if nobody wants to associate with me after all of that.”

 _Now that everyone hates you,_ she whispered, and Shinguuji could not refute it.

“Ah, well,” Amami said, shrugging as he leant against the back of the couch. “I don’t know, actually. I can kind of guess, but I haven’t read any of the articles or anything like that.”

“Oh.” Shinguuji replied.

He hadn’t expected that.

Pushing his hair back out of his eyes, he peered at Amami and asked, “You aren’t… curious?”

“Only a little,” he answered drily, with a casual flick of his wrist. “I feel like when it comes to stuff like that, it’s always way overplayed. So they’ll call you the worst person on earth or something, but you really can’t be the actual worst, you know? There are worse things than a prewritten backstory to get a few gags,” Amami rolled his eyes. “Or whatever _Danganronpa_ was trying to pull with you.”

“Aren’t you part of _Danganronpa_? Wouldn’t you know?”

“Nah,” Amami replied, then seemed to rethink it. He made more gestures with his hands as he spoke, “I mean, honestly, I’ve never been all that involved. It stresses me out, so I prefer to just go with the flow, you feel me? The last time I had a passion for something was when I was off being an adventurer, but after that, I just burned straight out.”

“I see… how characteristic of you, Amami-kun.”

“Well, yeah, but what about you? What are your thoughts on what _Danganronpa_ did to you, anyway? Do you think it’s their fault?”

“I believe I asked them to do it. I wanted them to do what they did,” Shinguuji answered, not quite willing to accept the proffered excuse – the justification for an act he had partaken in by signing that contract on that fateful day. “Don’t ignore that.”

“Did you?” Amami inquired, sounding like he didn’t quite believe him. “Every single thing that happened to you, you wanted that?”

Shinguuji was reluctant to impart the truth.

It sounded almost pathetic to voice, but he was too tired to pursue a more nuanced argument. The words felt heavy in his throat.

“Perhaps not entirely, but partly, and that much cannot be erased.” He admitted with a sigh. “I signed up for this. I cannot shy from the responsibility. This is… what I wanted. Aren’t you the same?”

“Honestly, who knows,” Amami said breezily, electing not to reply proper. “Well then, not-entirely-but-partly, tell me about yourself. Who you really are, without the mask.” He seemed to rethink his words for a moment. “I mean, not without the, actual physical mask, that’s fine? I don’t wanna make you take it off or anything. I just mean. Let’s talk about you.”

Shinguuji shrank a little, caught off guard. “W-what…? Why?”

“I don’t know you that well.” Amami answered. “I wanna learn some things about you.”

“You want… to learn about me,” Shinguuji stated disbelievingly.

“Yeah.” He swiped idly at his tablet, shifting his focus back to the screen. “And I want to learn about you from you. I don’t want to read tabloids or forums. I got sick of those after the first few days.”

“Why… me?”

“Well, you’re interesting.” Amami replied, and he seemed to shift distractedly in his seat. His smile was static but kind all the same. Secretive, even. “Something like that, yeah?”

“I… haven’t prepared anything…” He responded weakly. As if it was routine to require preparation to speak about oneself, just like he was always taught to, and as if the very thought didn’t litter him with a thousand unspoken apologies and the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t have anything to say regardless.

“That’s okay. Next time, then.”

“Wouldn’t you already know a lot about me anyway?” Shinguuji blurted, perhaps a touch bitter but it wasn’t intentional. His throat was too tight. He was forcing the conversation forward and he knew it but he couldn’t stop himself from talking. “ _Danganronpa_ has fact files on all of us.”

“Nah, I don’t know. Thing is, I don’t like what _Danganronpa_ does and even if I have checked your fact files, I only remember them briefly,” Amami said, taking it all in stride in that somewhat infuriatingly casual way that he does. “Besides, I never wanted any of this to happen in the first place.”

“You are so vague, Amami-kun,” Shinguuji told him.

“Well, the atmosphere doesn’t really call for talking about killing games and murder, but if that’s what you want to hear… I suppose I can look up any information you need on this,” he gestured to his tablet. “Within reason, obviously.”

“If it is alright, I would like to ask you something instead.”

“Oh, yeah? Shoot.”

“You may have fooled a less observant person, but I am not that, and you would do well to remember so for future reference.” He said carefully. “I wonder, will you be able to tell me this truthfully, just how much of the conversation we had was a lie?”

Amami blinked at him, surprised. “Sorry, what?”

“Don’t feign ignorance. You have surrendered a lot of information that doesn’t quite align with what I know of you.”

“... alright. I wouldn’t say I’ve been lying to you, I’m really not that kind of person,” Amami said. “But yeah, I have no way of proving what I said was true, and I don’t expect you to place your trust in me so easily, but I’m not a bad person, okay?”

“Do I have any reason to believe that?”

“I guess I can’t blame you for being suspicious of me…” he sighed, hand running through his hair as he seemed to contemplate his next course of action. “Tell you what! There is one thing I can offer you, and that’s the reason why I’m down here tonight.”

“Why you’re here…?”

“Vents,” Amami answered, far too brightly for the situation at hand, especially since the mention of vents automatically connected Shinguuji’s mind with the memory of Amami’s death. “The vents are pretty noisy in my room, and honestly I just can’t sleep like that. Shirogane-san is looking into it, but I’m camping out here for now.”

He nodded absent-mindedly, not quite certain what to do with this information, but it seemed he didn’t have to think, as Amami was quick to offer a suggestion.

“You can see for yourself, if you want.” Amami said, gesturing towards the upper floor. “My room is at the far end of the hallway, on the left. It doesn’t lock, same as everyone else. Prove one of the things I’ve said tonight is true.”

Shinguuji unfolded himself from the couch, intent on seeking an answer and ignoring the part of him that yearned to stay, to learn, to discover.

No, he would be a burden no longer. Of that, he was certain.

“Goodnight, Amami-kun. Should you require my presence in the near future, you may politely knock on my door, however it is possible that I may be immersed in a deep slumber, unable to answer your call,” he offered before he left the room completely.

“Night.” Amami said, sounding somewhat amused, despite nothing humorous resulting from the exchange whatsoever. “Sleep well.”

* * *

Upstairs, Shinguuji pressed his fingers to his temple, wondering where all the confidence he had could have possibly originated from, then finding that he didn’t particularly want to know the answer.

He belatedly realized that he hadn’t even managed to step foot into the kitchen and he was already upstairs again — fuelled by sheer spite for _Danganronpa_ , he presumed — and face-to-face with the doorplate displaying Amami’s name.

He hesitated for a moment, before trying the handle, and stepping into Amami’s room.

Invitation lore had always specified that only the owner needed to grant permission to enter, and thus, he believed his actions were perfectly justified, though he was not some mythical species that required invitation in the first place.

Thinking of folklore was calming in ways he didn’t want to ponder deeply.

He tried to swallow the nervousness that persisted, and ignored the dull pain that coursed through his body as he moved. Gracelessly, still, he swept through the room, taking in all he could in the low light.

Amami hadn’t unpacked at all, save for a few trinkets on the bedside table, yet what became alarmingly clear was just how prominent the sound of the vents was.

His eyes narrowed at the slats in the ceiling, trying to pinpoint what was causing the sounds, but staring up too long made him feel a little nauseous. He knew he shouldn’t push himself, not as much as he would have liked.

Lowering his gaze, he found a glint of something that caught his eye. A silver ring lay atop papers that had been shoved unceremoniously under the lamp and curiosity drew Shinguuji closer, even though he knew he shouldn’t pry.

 _Danganronpa V3 Notes_ , Shinguuji pursed his lips. Of course, he had already pinpointed Amami as a liar so it was no surprise. He didn’t keep reading, simply tucked the papers back and settled the ring back in its place.

He stepped into his own room and paused momentarily to listen out for the vents. They were a dim hum in comparison, and Shinguuji wondered with a lingering sense of dread if they had given Amami that room on purpose.

Then, he wondered why they would do that, or who made that decision, or was it an oversight, and had Amami known?

He had always been difficult to read, even for Shinguuji, who had paid more attention to each and every one of them than they would have ever wanted to know.

However, that was back in the simulation, he reminded himself. It wasn’t comforting, but he suddenly wasn’t sure he knew these people at all.

* * *

_But you don’t need them anyway._

_You are perfectly fine on your own._

_Have faith in that. Take comfort in yourself._

_I will always be here for you, even when nobody else is._

_Especially when nobody else is._

* * *

If Shinguuji was to be completely truthful, he did not remember how the rest of that night had gone.

He thought he may have blacked out, and suddenly it was morning, however he did not remember falling asleep – nor did he remember waking up. He supposed that it was a byproduct of being trapped with no concept of time (the clock meant nothing to him, numbers didn’t seem real), yet he felt disoriented and confused, and frankly, did not want to do anything at all.

He let his thoughts swarm at him like flies, as if he was already rotting away and decaying like a corpse left out to dry.

Casually, as he seemed to do, he thought it might be nicer if he was dead.

* * *

He laid like that until the alarm on his tablet blared unpleasantly, reminding him to go eat.

He didn’t necessarily want to, but he didn’t want to cause trouble, so he heaved himself up with a heavy head and made his way downstairs with a staggering gait.

Gokuhara sat beside him in the kitchen.

Shinguuji had no words to say to him, only poked at the bread roll on his plate with disinterest, hoping he could just leave again as soon as possible, noting rather alarmingly that he could not eat with his mask on – and he was not going to remove it under any circumstance.

Thus, eating in the presence of others was impossible.

He hadn’t the appetite anyway, but it did further complicate things, especially considering how he was probably expected to show up for these meal times and put some semblance of food into his mouth, but he just couldn’t. His mask would stay on no matter what.

He would starve for her if he had to.

“Murderer.” Gokuhara said suddenly.

Shinguuji flinched, breath stopping short in his chest.

“You and I,” Gokuhara clarified, as if thinking better of the way he had spoken. “We’re murderers.”

He swallowed, tearing a chunk off of the roll in his hands and turning the bread bit between his fingers. Just to give himself a distraction. “You seem to fixate on that word a lot, Gokuhara-kun.”

“What? Murderer?”

“Can you say murderer if your victims are still alive?”

“You know what Gonta means.” Gokuhara replied. “Besides, Shinguuji-kun, it doesn’t matter if we’re murderers. That does not mean we cannot be forgiven.”

The word forgiveness pierced him like a knife pushed in straight to the hilt. Like a dagger twisting in his chest. 

“No. That isn’t true,” he said. He dug his nails into his bread.

“It is.” Gokuhara’s answer was firm. “Shinguuji-kun, maybe Gonta is as stupid as everyone says he is but he knows there are things that are out of our control, and this is one of them. We were used, and we will be better, and we can be forgiven – no, you can be forgiven, because it was not your fault.”

“Not my fault? Do you honestly believe that?”

“Gonta does.” He scraped his butter knife across his own roll, and Shinguuji winced at the sound. “You didn’t – you didn’t deserve what they did to you, Shinguuji-kun. Everybody can see that. And because you were a victim–”

“Victim?” He snapped. “I was not a victim, Gokuhara-kun, I was a killer and you know that. Don’t you dare lose sight of that, even for a moment–”

“Not like that,” Gokuhara growled. “A victim of _her_. You know. Your fucking sister.”

“I will not allow you to disrespect her like that!” He retorted, for once uncaring of how the room seemed to quiet as he raised his voice. “You can say all you want about me, but leave her out of this!”

“What? Shinguuji-kun, just listen– you don’t have to pretend anymore, everybody knows–”

“And what does everybody know? You know nothing about me! You know nothing about her! How dare you make accusations like that when you know nothing?!”

“Why are you getting so defensive? She was made to use you! You were obviously a victim, there’s no arguing about it! Just let it go already!”

“You think I was locked up and thrown to the wolves, like I didn’t ask for this to happen, like I didn’t want this, like I can’t be _blamed_ for this but let me tell you this was a decision I made without tethers, without being forced,” Shinguuji narrowed his eyes considerably. “You are just trying to find light where there isn’t any.”

“Can’t fucking fault me for trying.” Gokuhara grabbed the rest of his food and pushed out of his chair, leaving with one last scornful glare.

“Don’t be so crass,” Shinguuji muttered. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Don’t tell Gonta what to do,” he called over his shoulder.

Shinguuji bit his lip and tried not to let his emotions take hold of him. He was such a waste of breath.

* * *

Unable to handle the weight of the staring, he soon made his exit as well.

By some stroke of luck, he made it all the way to the bottom of the staircase – leaving a trail of breadcrumbs he didn’t want to eat – until he managed to trip again, meeting the ground with an irritated sputter.

“Hey clumsy,” Ouma called from somewhere, and all too soon, the wheelchair-bound boy was behind him. “You know that klutzy-helpless trope doesn’t suit you, right? It’s not cute when it’s you. It’s just pathetic.”

“Sorry.” Shinguuji said. He dusted off his pants and forced himself to get up. Crumbs were everywhere.

“You should be,” Ouma replied, shaking his hands out. “Why’re you making a mess, anyway? Bread’s for eating, dumbass. You’ll attract ants. Gross.”

“Sorry,” he said again.

“What? Are you a broken record now?” Ouma’s lips twisted into a frown. “Whatever, it’s not like I care. Do you need someone to hold your hand going up the stairs? I’m not offering, by the way. Just asking.”

“I do not require assistance,” he replied. “Rather, I would prefer it if you left me alone. Besides, considering the state of you, the most you can accomplish is laughing at me, anyway.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Ouma shot back cheerfully, but he was quick to switch back to a more serious face, too. “Really though, I wanted to talk to you, ‘cause I’m supposed to be the most hated, but people like super hate you more, and I want my crown back, Shinguuji-chan. How about it?”

“It isn’t an accomplishment,” he sighed. “There was no competition for… something like that.”

“That’s what you think. But there is always a competition, and I’m always winning it and that is all you need to know,” Ouma declared, wheeling back and forth. “Whatever, though, I’ll gloat to you later. Wanna be trapped in an enclosed space with me where we might be locked in if we’re unlucky and I might cry because I’m claustrophobic and life is just one cruel joke after another?”

“I– sorry, what?”

“It’s a lie, stupid,” Ouma rolled his eyes, then closed the gap between them, yanking on Shinguuji’s arm until he willingly let himself be led to wherever Ouma wanted to take him. “I don’t wanna ride the elevator by myself, so you’re coming whether you like it or not.”

“But–”

“But!” He interrupted. “I get to press all the buttons and you have to push me to my room! So it’s totally not a fair exchange, but you have to do it because you feel sorry for me, okay? Even if you don’t, I’m not gonna be nice to you, so get used to it.”

Shinguuji sighed, hands resting on the handlebars and pushing Ouma forward with his currently meagre strength. “Then this will be a painful experience for both of us.”

* * *

Despite his words, the elevator ride was solemnly quiet.

Ouma was smiling, of course, albeit a little tighter than usual, wheeling back and forth again restlessly until they arrived at the second floor without incident.

He didn’t thank Shinguuji after being taken to his room, but once Shinguuji had returned to his senses, he realized that Ouma had taken his half-mangled bread roll and replaced it with a candy bar instead.

* * *

He fell into bed with it, exhausted.

When he slipped it beneath his mask to nibble on the corner of it, he wondered fleetingly if Ouma had put rat poison in it or something equally upsetting or painful to the stomach, but he knew it was too much to hope for.

It was terribly pitiful, but he almost started crying as he bit into the candy again, wondering why Ouma had even bothered.

Somehow, the odd act of kindness hurt him more.

It hurt, he thought, because he knew that he did not deserve it.

Unfinished, he tossed the rest of the bar into the trash.

He did not deserve anything.

* * *

_I will give you all that you need. I will tell you what to eat and how much. I will allow you time to eat, away from everyone, so that you needn’t worry so much._

_You mustn’t inconvenience anybody else. Do you understand?_

_You mustn’t let anyone else pity you._

_Do you understand?_

* * *

Sometime after the sun had set, Toujou visited with food as well.

He blinked blearily at her after she entered, the quasi-maid now curiously situated in a wheelchair just like Ouma’s, tray of food on her lap, all wrapped up nicely in floral tea towels.

A nasal cannula was situated on her face, and though he knew it was providing her with supplemental oxygen for whatever reason she required it, all he wanted to do was pull it out. 

“You missed meal time. Twice so far,” she explained, wheeling in and setting the tray down on his empty desk. “You’re not the only one who did, so please don’t be embarrassed, I’m just here to give you something to eat as soon as you can, alright?”

He didn’t offer any response.

“Shinguuji-kun,” Toujou said, sternness creeping into her voice. “You must eat. I understand that it may be difficult, but even if you are able to take care of the bare necessities, that will make this process a lot smoother. You understand that too, do you not?”

He was fine with it for the moment, but one look at her in that chair, that hollow facepiece, the growing harshness in her tone all wrapped in a veil of caring — she reminded him too much of—

“Get out,” he snapped without warning.

Toujou quickly drew back, frozen in the recoil as she gazed at him quizzically. “What?”

“Get out! I said get out!”

“Shinguuji-kun, wait, please calm down, I don’t know what—”

“I’m sorry!” He shrieked. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Get out!”

“Let me help–”

 _She_ used to come into his room just like this – _I’m just looking after my sweet little brother, after all –_ used to veil it with care and love when she locked the door behind her, saying he was the only thing in the world that kept her warm and safe and happy.

She used to take care of him whenever she could and he was grateful, so grateful, always, because she was ill and he was a burden she never asked for.

 _But she didn’t do any of that_ , some logical part of his brain was hissing, low and urgent. _These memories aren’t yours. Snap out of it!_

Shinguuji trembled all the same, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes as his vision blurred and when Toujou ventured a little closer, all he could do was shake pathetically, clutching himself tight.

“Shinguuji-kun, please tell me what’s wrong,” Toujou whispered, voice drenched with concern. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

 _I promise it won’t hurt, Korekiyo._ Sister said, as if she already knew through and through that it was a lie. But he never spoke up against her. He never resisted her, because he was indebted to her, he owed her his life and everything in it.

She didn’t ask for him to be born.

She shouldn’t have had to deal with him at all.

They both knew it, too.

She would raise her palm against him, sometimes belts and rods when she hadn’t the strength to hit him hard enough, when he didn’t bruise prettily enough, screaming, _“It’s not fair! It’s not fair! I just wanted to live a normal life! I just want to be normal! Why do you get to be healthy?! Apologize! Why do you get to be–”_

“I’m sorry, I’m sorrysorrysorry, please, please, please, I’m sorry–”

Looking frantic, Toujou snatched up the box of tissues on his desk and stepped out of her wheelchair with a panicked cough, pulling tissues from the box and offering them to him. When he refused to accept them, she leaned in closer, hand shaking as she tried to wipe his tears but the moment she touched him, he dissolved into a fit of broken sobbing.

“I-I know this is irrational, I know this isn’t the way I should be feeling, I know I shouldn’t fight, I shouldn’t argue, I should just take it, but I can’t take it, please get out! I’ll make it up to you! I’m sorry! I’m sorry…!”

Toujou bit her lip, set the box down, landed back in her wheelchair with a terrible sadness and left.

* * *

He laid motionless on his bedroom floor, thinking about nothing, feeling nothing.

There was a dull throb of frustration that coursed through him in moments when he thought he’d finally snap out of it but — nothing. Constantly, consistently nothing.

Perhaps he really was nothing.

* * *

They started playing dress-up again a week into this new routine.

It hadn’t been sprung on them without warning, but Shinguuji had ignored the very prospect of it, and he had almost believed he would be able to forget about it completely, yet his tablet would not allow it. He wished the damned thing had a silencing button.

He had, of course, been reminded to shower beforehand but after an hour of sitting in the bathroom unable to turn on the hot water — unable to even look at the bathtub without wanting to retch — he had mustered the energy only to wipe himself down with a cold washcloth and tried not to think about how disgusting he felt.

He wanted to be clean, desperately so, but no matter what, he could not scrub himself free of that filthy feeling.

He walked into the studio with a slow step, trying to blend into the walls as the others pushed past him.

Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, it was Akamatsu who grabbed him by the arm and dragged him in as she was breezing through.

“You look way too freaked out to be here,” She told him. “Take some deep breaths or whatever? It’ll be less painful if you’re not looking like you’re about to drown yourself on dry land.”

“I- my apologies, Akamatsu-san, I don’t-”

“Let it go, Shinguuji,” she led him through, flipping Momota off as they passed him and setting him down with a gaggle of staff that were waving them over.

Shinguuji panicked when she let go, immediately clutching onto the blonde’s arm — humiliating as it was to cling to her, he didn’t want to be left alone — but Akamatsu shook her head.

“Sorry, I can’t hang.” She blinked, seeming to just process her phrasing, then shrugging it off with a grin. “You’ll be okay. Get yourself fixed up, and when you’re looking a little less pathetic, I might come back, okay?”

“Akamatsu-san,” he very near pleaded. “I don’t wish to trouble you, but please-”

She shook her head again as Harukawa crept up to them and jerked her thumb towards Saihara, not sparing Shinguuji a glance. “Hey, piano girl. Protags need to hurry up. You’re fifteen minutes late so move it.”

“Don’t be such a hardass,” Akamatsu sighed. “But okay, okay, I’m going.”

When they left, Akamatsu shot him one sympathetic smile, but Shinguuji’s nerves could not be soothed.

There were fingers in his hair now. A plastic glove poking at his cheek. They took hold of his hands, turning them over and back, and then set his palms down so they could cut and file his nails.

There was measuring tape down the length of his torso, then his arms, then his legs, waist, shoulders. Clothes hung lifelessly on the rack — and he could recognize them. Mask, shirt, bandages, jacket, pants, armband, hat, boots. It was all familiar, yet it was not.

He was a doll.

Their doll.

The staff bustled around him, pulling and prodding, fixing and changing him the way they pleased.

The stylist had gushed about the length of his hair, which Shinguuji had opted to tune out as much as possible, letting them wash and comb and snip away at it until he looked like someone he would much rather forget.

They had granted his wish to be turned away from the mirror as they applied his makeup, and though the swipe of lipstick against his lips pulled a stream of nausea into his throat, he suppressed it, simply sitting so still one might have mistaken him for a statue. He wasn’t numb to the eyes around him, though, far from it.

Just like before, he was all too aware of who was looking at him.

Yumeno in particular had been glowering from across the room. With her hair pinned out of her face, it was ever striking. He didn’t cower from it even when he wanted to, realizing that something hideous within him was revelling in the spiteful gaze.

This was not the timid Yumeno he remembered and he was almost proud of her for blooming in such circumstances. The only reason he was not, was because she would not appreciate the sentiment the slightest. She despised him. That much was very clear.

Perhaps they all did.

Fortunately, neither Chabashira nor Angie seemed to take note of his presence this time around, the quasi-magician diverting their attention with a surprising amount of vigor. He counted that as a blessing in the very least.

Gokuhara clapped his shoulder once his hair and makeup had been done, and he had scrambled into the most of his clothes in the bathroom. Perhaps a supportive gesture. Perhaps not.

He then pushed past to start a conversation with Momota, who was helping Ouma wobble to stand long enough for the staff to tighten the straps around his legs. Ouma seemed to stiffen when Gokuhara appeared, but Gokuhara only assisted with holding him upright, booming enthusiastically about him needing to bulk up a bit so he could stand on his own again.

Shinguuji was so preoccupied with watching them — finding a stirred curiosity in the scene of two rather built boys looking over a much scrawnier one, a fight or flee scenario in many other cases — that he didn’t register the tap on his shoulder.

“Shinguuji-kun, hello,” Shirogane popped into his line of sight, offering him a loaded coat hanger. “You forgot your jacket.”

Shinguuji blinked slowly. He hesitated to reach for it, flashes of memories hurtling around his skull as he did — _ah_ , how kind and considerate his wonderful sister was, to spend her sickly days sewing him this uniform, and _ah_ , she was so sweet and _yes, Korekiyo, don’t you remember all I have done for you?_

His fingers curled as if to grasp the hanger, but didn’t.

He slapped her hand away. The jacket almost flew with the force, but her grip on it was steadfast.

This time, Shirogane blinked. Sharp bats of her lashes behind her frames. Processing. Comprehending. Then, demurely, as if she actually cared, she asked, “What seems to be the matter?”

_Let us be truly one again, just like you always wanted._

“I can’t, I can’t put that uniform _on_ ,” he hissed, taking a step back. “I won’t. I won’t do it. I won’t wear it ever again.”

“Don’t be so difficult, Shinguuji-kun.” Shirogane scolded, pushing the hanger towards him. “It’s part of the agreement.”

He took another step backwards and then another as she advanced, further, forward, a huntress after her prey. Step over step, her heels clacked against the floor and it felt like shrapnel piercing through his head every time they landed, and he strained to keep his breathing even. Panic would do him no good.

_Korekiyo, please, I have worked so hard for you. Won’t you do what she asks? This is the best for both of us._

“I won’t do it,” he told her in a shaky voice. “I won’t be… become like that again.”

“You won’t become anything. It’s just a costume,” Shirogane’s tone was vindictive. “Come now. Do as you’re told. We don’t have time for this.”

“N-no, I won’t do it, I won’t—”

“Shinguuji-kun!” She insisted. “You have to! For _Danganronpa_! You will do anything for _Danganronpa_ , isn’t that what you agreed to? We are all devoted to _Danganronpa_ , aren’t we?!”

He wanted to lash out, let the rage that had struck him over how unfair it was to rain down upon Shirogane and her heartless tirade, but he saw the relentlessness in her eyes and faltered. He would not stand a chance against that kind of dedication.

His mind was still, ultimately, tragically, weak.

He wasn’t driven by anything, not even the will to survive. She was tyrannical. He knew she would do anything for _Danganronpa._

He would not stand a chance against her.

So he ran.

_We’ll be together forever. You and I._

Everything hurt as he did, legs feeling as though they’d shatter if he took another step, but he did and he did and he did, pushing past shouts of his name and swallowing the urge to scream. His lungs heaved like they wished to burst free from his chest.

_No matter where you go, I will always be with you._

It was supposed to be a relief to hear her voice. It was supposed to be reassuring. He was supposed to let it wash over him and soothe his nerves, his soul, his heart.

The tears that sprung to his eyes were useless, despicable and ungrateful.

_Isn’t that wonderful, Korekiyo?_

He ran, and didn’t stop until all that surrounded him was silence, and then he was alone in an unfamiliar corridor, sinking to his knees.

* * *

_Listen to me, Korekiyo. Why are you so afraid?_

_You used to be so obedient, yes, you were such a good child._

_Can you still hear me? Will you listen to me?_

_Yes… that’s perfect. You make me so happy, dear, won’t you come back to me? Let us rest._

* * *

Time was still.

He berated himself for his un-cooperation, berated himself for overreaction, for evidently causing a scene, a spectacle, for getting in the way of everything, for delaying the schedule or any other inconvenience he must have caused because that was what he was, in essence. An inconvenience. A burden.

No, maybe not even that.

He was nothing, and he knew it.

Without her, he was nothing.

* * *

_Korekiyo. Sweet, sweet Korekiyo._

_I love you._

_Don’t you understand?_

* * *

The shoes that entered his vision sounded a familiar tip-tap across the floor before they stopped. He could hear them clatter against a wall, but didn't look up.

“Look at me, Korekiyo.”

He lifted his head slowly, trailing up soft, bare feet and a pressed, pale hospital gown. The order manifested itself in the face of a woman with long dark hair and golden eyes, lips painted a deep crimson.

“There you are,” she put her hands on her hips, before they slid up to find the indent of her waist and rested there instead. “Foolish brother. You shouldn’t walk away when somebody is trying to talk to you, you know? Didn’t I teach you to behave? To be courteous to others is the very foundation of the lessons I taught you. I am disappointed in your lack of respect. Get up.”

“I– you– w-what– how are you–?”

“There is no time to explain. I came because you needed me, did you not? Now come, my dearest, my sweet child,” her touch was cold as it wrapped around his wrist, the iciness seeping through the fabric of his shirt, rendering him numb, and he wordlessly obeyed, allowing her to pull him to his feet rather abruptly.

It didn’t make any sense, she wasn’t supposed to be physical, touchable or real or any semblance of the words.

She was supposed to be dead.

He shook in her grasp, uncontrollably, knowing that something felt off about this situation, but some part of him was gleaming in ecstasy just to see her face again — oh, this was more than anything he could have imagined! His sister, alive, yes, his wonderful sister, how could he have been so blind? She had never left him, she was simply waiting to find him in his time of need, as always, she would be here, she was here, transcending death itself.

How fitting of her! How marvellous it was! How touching that she would return to him in such a manner, and that he would be able to witness such a beautiful—

“Shirogane-san, what the _hell_ are you doing?”


	5. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt like a string unravelling, forking and fraying at the end as his mind thundered with the terrifying dilemma — what if she disappeared forever? What if she stayed forever?
> 
> Why was he afraid of both outcomes?
> 
> That didn't make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: emotional abuse and manipulation, physical violence/mistreatment, intrusive thoughts, be careful with the start of this chapter in particular

_“Sweet Korekiyo, you know that I love you, don’t you?”_

He bowed his head. “Of course. I love you, too.”

 _“How much?”_ She smiled, tone light but ringing of an unspoken expectation. _“Tell me how much you love me.”_

He hesitated for a moment, contemplating what kind of answer would make her happiest. Endless, forgiving, unconditional love, he supposed, and nothing less. Of course he knew.

He was the only one who knew how to make her happy, and that was his sole privilege.

His price of living, in this– this– where _was_ this?

_“Korekiyo. Answer me.”_

“More than anything.” He replied, soft and slow and gentle. “More than there are…” his gaze flitted towards the window, at the night twinkling beyond the glass. “... stars in the entire expanse of the sky. More than there are stars in this universe. More than anything.”

She was silent as he looked back at her, and he feared he might not have said enough. His eyes flickered down to her hands, then back to her face, wordlessly pleading for her not to be disappointed in him. She smiled again, lips thin.

_“And what is our love to you?”_

A chance to redeem himself — ah, she was ever kind. To have such a wonderful sister, he was truly fortunate, and he knew very well to be grateful to her as she had taught him countless times.

“Radiant and beautiful, of course.”

 _“Well said, my dear.”_ Her features were so very sweet, he almost wondered what he had been so afraid of in the first place. _“I do love you so, Korekiyo. There is no love as radiant and beautiful as ours, is there?”_

“No,” he smiled softly, hands crossed over his chest. He could feel his dull heartbeat, traitorously slow though it should have been beating wildly for her. He felt like he was trapped in a thick fog. He refused to let it affect him. “There isn’t.”

 _“And for how long?”_ Sister asked. _“How long will you love me radiantly and beautifully? Forever and ever until I’m dead? After I’m dead? You’ll love me even after I’m dead, won’t you?”_

Dead. His heart stopped at the word.

Ah, right. Of course. Life, as always, was transient.

“You’re already dead,” he whispered, hands shaking as they curled around the sleeves of his elbows, wrapping around himself as if seeking the comfort of a hug he wouldn’t receive. Reality sunk in quickly. Suddenly. Abruptly.

He could barely swallow the panic that swelled within him, agonizing and fierce, before it softened into grief.

Acceptance.

“You’re dead.” He repeated. “You’re dead. You’re dead. You’re dead. You’re dead.”

 _“Am I?”_ She laughed, ever dainty, red nails cupping over her mouth as if hiding a secret only she knew. He had no right to ask for it, had there been something she was keeping from him, so he simply shrunk closer into himself, let her laughter wash over them like wind chimes, thin and grating in the sickly night. _“Am I dead?”_

“Yes. I was there,” he said, faux confidence stapled into his voice, and yet given one glance to the look on her face, he recoiled immediately. Again, he had acted out of line.

How insensitive of him. He shouldn’t have spoken. She was disappointed. He was disappointing her. He was always such a disappointment.

He felt guilty, oh, so very guilty.

Head hanging in shame, he quickly amended as his fingers picked frantically at the bandages on his hands.

“You are dead, yes, but not completely. Your soul lives on…” He knew it was true, he knew it even though they were separate _wherever this was,_ knew that this was the truth no matter what. Refused to accept anything else as fact. “... inside of me.”

Her tone was knowing. _“And it always will, won’t it?”_

Peace. Do not disappoint her any further.

“Of course. As long as I am of use to you, always,” he replied quietly, hands grasping at each other and grip wringing tight. “And as long as I need you, I will allow you to do as you wish.”

 _“Ah, but you will always need me.”_ She kept laughing, reaching such a hysteria that he could do nothing but watch. _“You do not know how to live without me! Isn’t that right, Korekiyo?”_

“No,” he whimpered. He could feel himself breaking out into a cold sweat at the thought.

But which thought? Losing her? Not losing her?

What did he fear more?

He felt like a string unravelling, forking and fraying at the end as his mind thundered with the terrifying dilemma — what if she disappeared forever? What if she stayed forever?

Why was he afraid of both outcomes?

 _“Korekiyo.”_ Sister called in a pitying tone, amusement still wrought in her dulcet smile. _“Please. Don’t be so indecisive. You need me, do you not? You do not want or need anything else. Say it.”_

His form bent in obedience.

“I— I don’t. Of course I don’t. I cannot imagine needing anything more than I need you.”

_“Good answer.”_

With one last red-lipped smile, she snapped her chalky fingers and the scenery around them flickered into darkness.

 _“You cannot breathe without me.”_ She said, and he was suddenly choking, ribs aching as they tried to take even the slightest gasp of air. Nothing would pass through even when she ripped off the mask and his eyes started watering with the strain of it all. He closed his eyes, not allowing any tears to fall.

_“You cannot move without me.”_

Immediately, a crushing weight was drawing his bones together, trying to tie him in twists and knots, and _ah_. His limbs were held flush to his body, and he couldn’t even so much as twitch. Restrained. Paralyzed, like a rabbit submerged in water, knowing nothing but shock and fear.

He opened his eyes with a weary squint, still struggling to breathe, and realizing that it was because his chest was tied across in red and red and red, and now he was hovering from the ground and there was– pain? Was that pain? He couldn’t know pain, it all felt so numbing –

_“You cannot feel a pain worse than losing me.”_

– and his eyes fell shut again because he hadn’t the energy to keep them open.

“ _You cannot exist without me.”_

The tears started slipping through.

It was true, he did not deserve to exist in this plane where she did not exist, because she was everything and he was nothing and she was his everything and he was her everything so if she was nothing, then he could not be anything, and, and, and – breathe. He needed to breathe.

 _“No._ ” She told him.

“Please,” he rasped, barely a sound leaving his mouth. It was a waste of air and he was in such short supply. “Please. I— I need… to… breathe...”

He was going to die again, die again, and she would be his murderer, he was going to die, his nerves remembered this feeling so well. He needed to breathe.

_“No. You need to listen.”_

The lash came down like fire.

He had to hold back the scream.

_“Remember? Do you remember how beautiful it was when we found each other again?”_

Was it a whip? A belt? A cane? He couldn’t tell.

Back in the village he had nearly come to perish fatally in, the women had been equipped with whips and riding crops that stung like nothing else.

The emotional effect, perhaps, made this hurt in an unbelievable way.

The lashing felt like a blade against his skin, but there was no blood, so there must have been no pain, he surmised. It was a weak argument. Red welts bloomed between red ropes, beneath the splinters and frays that dug into his skin. It hurt. Of course it hurt.

_“No, it doesn’t hurt. My death is the only thing that should hurt. Do you understand?”_

He nodded weakly.

He did not know pain and he shouldn’t feel pain. Nothing could even closely compare.

Without her, that was the greatest pain, and he would let every force bruise and marr his skin, he would let them do as they wished, because no pain would ever triumph over the pain he felt in his heart.

Oh, his heart.

Was it not so broken and tender now, he didn’t know. He just didn’t know. He hadn’t been able to think since she left. He hadn’t been able to breathe, and without air, he could not function.

Without her, he could not function.

He might scar from this. He would scar. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. This was only an experience he would look upon in fondness. Humanity was so beautiful, even in its cruelty, after all.

He needed her back.

He’d do anything to have her back.

Her life, his life, the lives of many. Anything it took.

He could not live without her.

He could not afford to exist in this life without her, because without her, he could not be. He was not himself. He was them, they could be together when he was the two of them, when he surrendered his body, his mortal form – yes, this was what she may obtain, what she may possess, she could have all of it because that was what she deserved.

She deserved to have everything.

She was his everything.

 _“I am with you now, Korekiyo. You may breathe.”_ She smiled, hugging him close and in a flourish, all the pain disappeared and his lungs were filled with air once more. Ebbing and flowing. Peace. _“You waited for me. I’m so glad. I won’t ever leave you again.”_

“Thank you,” He cried openly into her embrace, holding on tight. She was here. She was here, and everything seemed like it would be fine once more. “Thank you. I cannot thank you enough.”

 _“You are getting all your tears on me, Korekiyo,”_ she said. _“Apologize.”_

“I’m sorry,” he attempted to hold back the sobs, but that made the shaking in his body worse. His breathing came out stilted, short and shallow. “I’m sorry. I’m just— I can’t control it, the tears keep falling, I’m sorry.”

_“Stop it.”_

“I— I can’t.”

_“Stop crying. Now. Please. It’s for your own good. Do not show weakness. You must learn to control yourself better, Korekiyo. Peace.”_

He inhaled deeply, wiping the remnants of tears from his face and exhaled. He took a few more breaths, trying desperately to calm himself down, and nodded once the tears stopped flowing.

“I’m sorry.” He said again. “I will not lose my composure like that again.”

 _“Empty promise, of course.”_ She replied. _“But I forgive you.”_

“Thank you.”

 _“For?_ ” Her thin eyebrows raised as she prompted him to continue. He had to hold back the tears, thick in his throat. Breathe.

“For coming back.” His fingers gently touched the hollow of his neck, silently begging the tears to remain down. “For making me calm. For your kindness. For everything. Thank you for everything.”

 _“You are a good child,”_ she told him. _“Let me ask you one more question.”_

“Of course. Anything.”

Her hand rested gently on his head. He closed his eyes. Peace.

_“Tell me, are you ha–”_

_– beep._

_“Tell me, are–”_

_– beep._

_“Tell me, are- are you- are you- are you–”_

_– beep._

_“Ha- ha- ha- happy now…?”_

_– beep._

Peace.

Then there was light. Streaming, streaming through. Noise, piercing through the quiet. So much calamity. Noise booming, noise clattering, rough and painfully uncontrollable, noise everywhere around him. Shinguuji could feel the tears still running down his face, hot and wet and wholly unpleasant.

He opened his eyes.

“Shinguuji-kun, Gonta is so sorry, he– he couldn’t stop it– he didn’t know that she could– no, forget it, that’s not important right now. Are you okay?”

“Shit, goddammit, what the fuck was– fuckin’ Shirogane, when I get my hands on her, I swear to–!”

“Shut your filthy fucking mouth, Iruma, you’re giving me a headache!”

“F- f- filthy fucking mouth…?! Aaaah!”

“Oh, geez! Now is not the time, pig vomit!”

“W– what’s going… on…?”

“We all saw what happened, Shinguuji-kun. We all saw. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

* * *

His sister grit her teeth, tightening her grip on him as she twirled to face the intruder with a harsh glower. “Don’t interfere, Amami-kun.”

Struck by the sheer maliciousness in her expression, Shinguuji was quick in his attempt to pacify her. Her discontentment made him uneasy. “A-ah, um, _nee-san_ , it’s okay, he’s not going to interfere with—”

“Be quiet, Korekiyo.”

“Of course. Of course.”

Her moonlight face was difficult to read, and that scared him. He was tense to his core. Even as she pulled him closer, he folded in stiff angles. The delirium – how overjoyed he was to see her again – melted into something uncomfortable that stuck in his throat like used gum to the underbelly of a waiting room seat.

On approach, Amami’s eyes were so sharp, anger so subdued yet so _furious,_ and that – that scared him, too.

Sister sighed, features softening for a moment. “Dear Korekiyo, don’t be so afraid. I am here, and so you can allow me to protect you, yes? You are too trusting. Your generosity is not necessary here. I will deal with him myself.”

“Yes, of course, that is no issue at all, of course, it is as you wish. Anything you wish.” Shinguuji ducked his head, eyes falling to her pretty red nails instead. Impeccable, as always. Beautiful. Her fingers fit perfectly around his wrist, and he wished he could rip the sleeve and the bandages off so he could feel it.

Her life. Alive, her beautiful life.

Guilt flooded through him in desperate waves and his free hand slowly reached towards her ashen knuckles before retracting. He had never felt less deserving of the act of _wanting_ something. He was not allowed to touch her without permission, and he knew that. Especially not now.

Why had he tried to get in her way?

He had been acting so terribly entitled, trying to talk over her like that. She knew what she was doing, she always had, and she never took well to being interrupted, especially without good reason to be, and he had no reason to interrupt, especially not on behalf of someone else, on behalf of someone like–

“Amami-kun. Leave, now.” She snapped, fingers digging into Shinguuji’s arm as she made a shooing motion with her other hand. Her nails stung through the fabric of his shirt.

At the mercy of such possessiveness, he felt his body relax.

 _Ah,_ it was such a familiar beauty.

He had almost forgotten what it felt like. She wanted him. She had seen all he had done and still wanted him. She was the only one who had ever wanted him. He had missed her so much.

“No.” Amami said, voice cutting in his refusal.

“ _Leave now_ ,” She repeated. The lips the words spilled from were stained the prettiest red. “This is nothing to concern yourself with. Go back to the studio. Go on. Leave. Get out of here. Go away.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re being such a pest!”

“And you’re doing the wrong thing,” his footsteps grew closer and Shinguuji coiled in towards his sister, vehemently keeping those white-tipped shoes out of his peripheral. “Let him go. You’re scaring him, and that’s not okay.”

“You’re the one who’s scaring him,” she hissed, wrapping an arm around Shinguuji’s waist and pressing a delicate kiss to his forehead. “It’s okay, isn’t it, Korekiyo? You trust me. You love me. Isn’t that right? You like having me here. You don’t want me to go anywhere.”

Shinguuji nodded and clung to her, burying his face in her shoulder. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

“...alright, look, whatever, I’ll spare you the lecture for now. We don’t have time for that.” The fire in Amami’s voice seemed to flicker into something akin to resignation.

His foot tapped restlessly against the flooring as he collected his thoughts.

Then stilled. Then tapped. Then stilled again.

If Shinguuji had been watching him, he imagined Amami’s hands would flutter as they usually did when he spoke, gesticulating as though it would help him make more sense of his surroundings.

“Just… why are you doing this?” Amami asked. “You know we’re not allowed to cross fiction with reality out here.”

“That statement is wholly incorrect, but like you said, we don’t have time for this,” she replied, snippish. Her tone immediately changed when she nudged Shinguuji gently, prying his useless face out of her shoulder and cooing sweetly, “Korekiyo and I are very happy to be reunited, aren’t we? That’s the important part.”

Shinguuji nodded.

Amami seemed less pleased. “He’s shaking, _Shirogane_.”

“Because _you_ are stressing him out,” She said with all the edges creeping into her voice again. “He is not afraid of me, and I am doing what I must to ensure everything goes smoothly. Stay out of this, Amami-kun. Right now, this is the only way we will be able to gain his cooperation.”

Shinguuji looked at her, taking in her pretty porcelain features, her dark silky locks and sweet, round eyes. It was so peaceful to him.

“Korekiyo,” she called soothingly. Her cold hand pulled his jaw towards her, “You would do as I asked, would you not?”

“Of course.” He nodded his assent. He would never refuse anything she said. He was hers. He had always been. He had never been anything else.

“Shinguuji-kun, listen to me.” Amami said evenly. “I don’t know what you’re seeing but that’s just Shirogane-san. Don’t let her trick you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t know what they’re talking about,” in the corner of his eye, he observed Amami crossing his arms and shooting him a rather stern look. “You’re being lied to. Shirogane-san is lying to you.”

 _No_ , he thought. She couldn’t be lying to him, she couldn’t be gone, she was always here, she was the only one who ever cared and he couldn’t breathe without—

The syllables fell from his lips before he could swallow them.

“Shi—Shirogane-san…?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. Do you remember who Shirogane-san is?” Amami asked, and though his words sounded so far away, the pieces made more sense than they should have. “Do you see what Shirogane-san is trying to do?”

He glanced at her pleadingly, and his sister’s gaze sharpened.

“Are you going to believe him over me? He’s inconsequential. An outsider. Outsiders don’t understand. What did I tell you, Korekiyo? Who are you to listen to?”

“You. Listen to you. Always listen to you, of course,” Shinguuji mumbled, clutching onto her arm like a helpless child. She would take care of him. That was comforting to him. He no longer had to make his own choices. She would tell him exactly what to do.

_Amami was the liar, outsiders were always lying, outsiders wanted to separate them from each other, he was just another liar, liar, liar._

“Beautiful,” Sister praised. “Simply beautiful, Korekiyo.”

“Shirogane-san.” The outsider said more firmly. “Stop it.”

“Why do you care?” She asked.

“It’s not the right thing to do.”

“Since when have you ever cared about doing the right thing?”

The outsider seemed to pause for a moment.

Deciding it was not worth the argument, however, he stepped a little closer to Shinguuji, looking at him with a dark, and frankly quite intimidating, expression. Shinguuji curled closer to his sister, away from him.

Outsiders were always like this.

Wanting to tear them apart, just like this.

“Shinguuji-kun,” he said, squatting in front of him. Outsiders always had faces like this, as if they were searching for something in his expression he didn’t want them to see. Fortunately, the mask, as he was now becoming exceedingly grateful for, hid everything well enough. “What’s my name?”

“Amami… Ran- Rantarou,” he murmured. Identities weren’t supposed to be given to outsiders. He didn’t know why he was cooperating. He didn’t feel in control of his own body. Simple questions only required simple answers. It didn’t mean anything.

“And yours?”

“Shinguuji Korekiyo,” he replied weakly. That didn’t sound like a person’s name, anymore.

“And hers?”

Shinguuji glanced at his sister again. She smiled and didn’t say anything, patting him soothingly.

“I… her name…” he began, brows knitting together in concentration. He felt sick suddenly, bile rising bitter in the back of his throat. Swallowing quickly, he turned back to Amami, suddenly livid in the panic that seized him like an electric shock coursing right through his body. “I shouldn’t– you don’t need to know my sister’s name. That’s not necessary! You don’t need to know anything about her! You’re- you’re just an outsider! You know nothing! You– you don’t need to know anything!”

“Hey. I’m sorry. It’s okay. Don’t worry about not remembering for now.” Amami told him, calm and low. “That’s not important for the time being. In fact, you have nothing to remember ‘cause the truth is, that’s not your sister. It’s… Shirogane-san, y’know? Shirogane Tsumugi. You know her, don’t you? You know what she does. You know what she’s capable of.”

He bit his lip, almost hiding behind her as he shifted even further away from Amami.

“Shirogane-san?” He repeated.

Amami nodded, the confirmation passing through his mouth with a quiet but firm tone of voice. There were no edges on him, not like there was earlier, and Shinguuji focused on him intently, trying to pick out the lie. “Shirogane Tsumugi.”

Shinguuji looked at her again, and she looked back at him, blinking innocently. Her pupils almost seemed to shift back into place, a horrific sight if true, and beneath the beautiful yellow ochre of her eyes came the briefest flash of _blue_.

“Do you believe him over me?” She asked. Her voice was sweet, but there was a warning there, too. Shinguuji pulled away from her, gaze flitting between the two of them in panic.

“Shi– Shirogane-san, I know Shirogane-san,” he choked, hands cupping shakily over his mask. Amami’s foot was tapping on the ground once more, light and springing with a restlessness he couldn’t quite contain and _she_ – _she_ seemed irritated by it, fingers clenching and unclenching by her sides now that Shinguuji was free from her grasp. “Wait, this… this doesn’t make any sense…”

“You’re making it worse.” She snapped again, flicking her smooth straight hair over her shoulder. Shinguuji wasn’t sure who she was directing it to, but the tapping stopped abruptly and a quick look told him that Sis– S– Shirogane had kicked Amami’s foot to get him to stop. “Just let him believe me. He was much happier before you showed up, Amami-kun.”

Shinguuji buried his face in his arms, curling up into a ball on the floor again.

He did not dare block the scene out completely though, paranoia prickling his skin as he heard them moving around – he watched from the gap between his forearms, feeling like nothing more than smoke in a bottle. There was a bitter taste to his tongue again.

Amami stood up, his shadow looming to meld with Shirogane’s as he did.

His voice kept the same calmness to it, and not a single step higher in temper. Disappointment, perhaps. Shinguuji knew the tone of disappointment well, but it still didn’t seem to fit quite right.

“You may be willing to do anything for _Danganronpa_ , but this is– don’t do things like this, Shirogane-san. You’re the one who’s making it worse.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” She asked, fussily striding over to retrieve her shoes and stepping back into them. “They all signed their lives away to _Danganronpa_ , Shinguuji-kun included. We have no obligation to… coddle people who can’t accept the responsibilities of their actions. We’re fulfilling their dreams! They should all be grateful they’re even here! Do you know how many people would kill for the opportunity to be here?”

“Please don’t be like this.”

“We have a deadline to meet, and this is just business. Amami-kun, don’t act like you don’t know what is expected of us. We have quotas. And I,” her fingers swiped golden contacts from her eyes as she slid her glasses back onto her face. “Being this season’s mastermind, will make sure it is the most successful season yet. Whether you like it or not.”

“Just… go easy on them, okay?” Amami shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking on his feet. “At least until they get used to it. They’re not like we…” he seemed to rethink his sentence halfway, and awkwardly picked it back up with, “What I mean is, it’s too soon to treat them like they’re seasoned professionals. They’re not. You know they’re not. It’s all a matter of experience, isn’t it?”

She glowered at him. Their gazes remained tense and fixed on each other for a long, tense moment before Shirogane huffed, pulling Shinguuji’s jacket from some hidden side-pocket in her clothing and shoving it into Amami’s chest. “Fine. You deal with him, then. I will discuss this with you later.”

“You got it.” He said. The garment laid limp in his arms.

“Get him back in 10 minutes,” she grabbed Amami by the necklace around his neck, yanking him down to eye level. From somewhere else in her hospital gown, her phone buzzed, but she ignored it. Scathingly, she spat, “That is an order, Rantarou. Don’t forget where your loyalties lie.”

“Got it.” He sighed, hand palming the back of his neck where the string of the necklace was digging into his skin. “Please let go of me.”

She released her hold, shoving him aside. “Remember, 10 minutes. Both of you. Back in the studio, or else. You know what will happen if you don’t.”

And with that, she took off, hair trailing in long waves behind her as she ripped off the wig she had been wearing. Her hands flew up to fix any flyaway hairs with a practiced, knowing ease, and Shinguuji bit down on his tongue to stop himself from following her.

She was not his sister. He knew that. Of course, he knew that.

“I said I got it already,” Amami called down the hallway. “Can’t you trust me with this?”

 _With him,_ went unspoken, but Shinguuji knew what he meant.

Even Amami didn’t want to be left to clean up the mess. He had probably only come because they were taking too long and the show couldn’t go on with two members missing. That was all.

Shinguuji wasn’t hopeful in the slightest for a better explanation for his presence.

Amami didn’t actually care.

“No. Of course not.” Onwards Shirogane strode, with footsteps sharp as a blade and she didn’t look back.

Amami sighed again, spinning on the spot before slouching against the wall a little. Shinguuji wasn’t looking at him but he could feel the frustration coming off of him, thick and heavy, and was irrationally fearful that being left alone with him would become an unwelcome scenario for the both of them.

He wondered, if he lifted his head, would Amami take the opportunity to slap him until he was bruised and crying, and laugh that his clothes would cover up all the evidence? That didn’t seem likely, but he still wondered.

He also wondered if he could coerce Amami into grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head against the wall until he passed clean out.

Also unlikely.

What a shame.

“Hey. Are you okay with touch?”

Shinguuji blinked wearily up at the words, gaze locking onto where Amami was hovering by the edge of the hallway, uniform in hand.

“What…?” He asked faintly.

“Are you okay with touch?” Amami repeated, in the same even tone. His expression wasn’t exactly the friendliest it could be but it wasn’t cold, either, which was perplexing because Shinguuji couldn’t quite place what emotion was on his face, and it was equally frustrating because he was usually _good_ at reading people. “Um, what I mean is, can I touch you right now or would you prefer that I didn’t?”

He imagined it before he could stop it – Amami’s palm striking fast across his cheek, the vicious fury of his eyes returning, his voice telling him _he wasn’t good enough, he was a failure, he was always a failure, c’mon, Shinguuji-kun, you’re so weak, you’re so pathetic, look at you, just look at you, you shouldn’t have survived, y’know? Hahaha, you’re better off dead, and you always have been, y’know? Y’know?_

“Hey,” Amami said, gentler than before, almost like he could sense his thoughts spiralling. “It’s just a question. I just wanna help you up, no ulterior motive, promise. You don’t even have to say yes, alright? I’ll back off if you want me to. You just have to tell me what you want. Got that?”

Shinguuji felt panic shoot through him and he shrunk as much as he could into the floor. His stomach lurched. He needed – _something_.

Someone to tell him what to do, no, he couldn’t be alone in his own head to face this, he couldn’t face this, where _was_ she, had she been here? Had Amami been lying after all? Had she left for good? Was Shirogane just an illusion? Had he failed her? Had she abandoned him? He couldn’t handle the thought of losing her again, he’d go mad, he’d go beyond the point of no return, or had he already been? It hurt without her here, it hurt, it hurt–

_Do not allow him to comfort you._

He exhaled.

 _You didn’t leave_ , he thought gratefully. He could feel the peace return. Had they not had company, he would have expended a more joyous reaction, but alas, he had to control himself.

Her voice seemed to agree.

_You’re being immature, Korekiyo. Calm yourself. It is your fault for causing a scene and you should be ashamed. Tell him you are perfectly fine. Do not waver. You do not deserve comfort for overreacting._

“I…” He squinted at the quasi-survivor-adventurer — he wondered absently if it would be right to assign Amami a talent at all, as he had never truly known him with one — and took another deep, shuddering breath.

In this moment, he felt so vulnerable, so fragile that if he were to be knocked even slightly, he might break into pieces and never recover from it.

“No.” He said, and his voice didn’t tremble. “My apologies. Thank you for asking. Sorry.”

_That’s right, sweet Korekiyo. I love you._

He held himself tight, closing his eyes. _I love you too. Thank you. Thank you for coming back._

“No harm done.” Amami replied, and his descent was slow. Inch by inch, he lowered himself back to Shinguuji’s level. Carefully. Not to startle. Cautious. “How are you feeling?”

_You are calm._

_You are no longer upset._

_You are not afraid._

He nodded.

Calmly. Without upset. Without fear.

_Good, Korekiyo. You are doing good._

“I think I am ready,” He told Amami, and though he meant to meet his eye, his stare drew towards the jacket hanging from Amami’s arm instead. Perhaps unluckily, Amami was sharp enough to follow his gaze immediately.

“You’re– alright, look, it’s fine, this is just a costume,” Amami lifted the jacket from his arm, shaking it out. Shinguuji felt a sliver of pride for not flinching at that, but it was soon overtaken by the fact that he knew it was not something to be proud of. He felt terrible. At this rate, polarizing thoughts would be all that was left of him. “There’s nothing hiding in here, Shinguuji-kun.”

_Take it from him, Korekiyo._

He reached out, for a bare moment, but when it was shifted towards him, he recoiled again. He had to shake his head as Amami tried to offer it to him again, and shuffled further away from him, as if the distance could form a barrier between them.

_I had sewn my love into that uniform for you, won’t you accept my kindness again?_

Shinguuji held himself against the wall and didn’t move.

“I’ll prove it to you,” Amami announced, possibly acting on impulse alone as he moved to put the jacket on himself.

He was swimming a little in the fabric that wasn’t quite made for him, all awkward angles as the slim fit of the jacket protested against the looseness of the outfit he was already wearing. The sleeves barely covered his shoulders, if at all, the bulk of his blue sweater keeping it at a scrunched half-on half-off state. He didn’t seem to mind.

After a failed attempt to try and pull his hands through the sleeves, Amami smiled back at him again, waving the khaki cuffs in that carefree, casual way of his. “See? Nothing. I promise it’s not going to hurt you.”

Shinguuji did not know how he was supposed to react.

On the one hand, this entire spectacle was unnecessary as he knew he was clearly overreacting over something as small as a jacket of all things – what on earth was wrong with him? He felt so worn out over what seemed like absolutely nothing – but on the other hand, he couldn’t help the incredulous tug of his lips behind the mask as he shakily remarked, “You… you look ridiculous.”

“Oh, no, I think I look great,” Amami replied, seeming cheered by the slight shift of expression. He ignored the fact it was slipping off of his shoulders as he shook the floppy sleeves vigorously up and down. “Yeah, this is… this is a real style moment for me. The fashion industry is quaking. You can feel it too, right?”

Of the details Shinguuji could have commented on, he found that he was simply so confused by this turn of events that he blurted, “Where… where are your hands? That is so impractical.”

“Who needs hands when you’re the epitome of fashion?” Amami kept waving the sleeves around. Though his smile didn’t quite light up his eyes, it had enough cheek in it for that to be hardly noticeable. “Enoshima Junko better watch out,” he declared, “I’m coming for her title next.”

“You are delusional…” Shinguuji shook his head. “Whatever it is you’re hoping to achieve, fashion is certainly not it. At most, you look like a mannequin in ill-fitting clothes.”

“What? And you’re the fashion police, are you? I am serving a look.”

“Perhaps if you were not wearing the sweater, you could almost look coordinated, but only as coordinated as a blazer would with sweatpants, and that is most certainly not ‘serving a look’, as you say,” he said, as though he knew how to reason with fashion at all. It was a fascinating, ever-objective aspect of humanity he had been fond of, in some lifetime – his memories blurred together too much to tell which – but if Shinguuji could do anything, it was prattle, at least.

Oddly enough, or not oddly at all, the derailing conversation seemed to be somewhat of a balm for his nerves. Distractions were always helpful, it seemed, whether intentional or not.

“Though your impulse was beautiful to witness, of course, the stripes are– rather, the… jacket does not… it… no. You’re not even wearing it properly. I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Haha, you sure you’re not just jealous?”

“Wha- I- no- _jealous_?” His incredulity must have shown on his face this time, because Amami laughed and it sounded a little more genuine.

“Yeah. ‘Cause high fashion is callin’ my name.”

Shinguuji scoffed, feeling a sort of pompousness, “For your obituary, perhaps.”

Amami paused there.

Shinguuji felt his misstep with an immediate alarm, making _death_ jokes to someone, of course Amami would be offended, who did he think he was, why did he open his mouth, he was so, so–

“Man, it really is a look to die for, isn’t it?” Amami lamented, looking sorrowfully at the sleeves as he waved the limp fabric around. His acting was so poor that Shinguuji simply stared at him. If he stared long enough, Amami might actually start being sensible again, he thought. “Can you die from looking too good? Did I accidentally reinvent fashion? Is that why they’re after me now? You knew this would happen, didn’t you? That’s why you didn’t wanna wear the jacket. You didn’t want the fashion assassins to snipe you down.”

“You are _absolutely_ absurd,” Shinguuji remarked, feeling his very lungs fill with what was partially relief and what was partially compliance to Amami’s odd whims. “Though I suppose, should you attempt death by beauty, you would not be the first to do so… your words remind me of Narcissus, a beautiful young hunter in Greek mythology, perhaps you have heard of him? Kukuku… led to a pool of water to fall in love with his own reflection, and then, despairing that his beautiful lover could not appear in the flesh and receive his love… well, I believe the rest is rather self-explanatory.”

“You took that joke way more seriously than I thought you would,” Amami commented rather bluntly, head tilting to the side but otherwise, he seemed unaffected. Shinguuji didn’t even have time to apologize for his undue ramble, Amami only shrugged and carried on. “But I guess you’re right. Narcissus didn’t have a cool jacket though, I bet.”

“Ah, isn’t it so beautifully human to fall for something so unattainable,” Shinguuji continued, the encouraged allowance of his thoughts leaving him dipping back into his own mind, relishing in speaking his musings aloud, “Had I the chance, I would like to meet him, I would think. Vanity is notably considered a sin of pride, and I think that is truly wonderful. How remarkable it would be to be utterly consumed by a singular sin, don’t you think? And might I add, I do enjoy sinning as far as the concept goes, but I have never identified as a single one. Such is the human condition not to be easily categorized, I suppose, though that is perhaps a conversation that is best saved for another time.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. It’s like— oh yeah, we still actually have to get this off me and onto you. I almost forgot. Wouldn’t _that_ have been awkward,” lightly chuckling to himself, Amami peeled off the jacket and presented it like a prize. “This thing will make you the envy of the people! That’s your sin of the day.”

Shinguuji didn’t quite _laugh_ , but he did exhale in an unmistakably amused manner, and so very, very remarkably, did not even shy away as he plucked the jacket from Amami’s hands. It was as though all the apprehension had dissipated. How interesting, indeed.

“You’re a terrible distraction, you know that?”

“Haha, am I? Or are you just easily distracted?”

Shinguuji straightened out the sleeves of the garment as he replied, “We both know you’re far more easily distracted than I am.”

He braced for an influx of emotion, a feeling of possessiveness that would haunt him as he slipped into the jacket, but – nothing happened. Not even the sound of his sister’s voice echoed through his head as he hastily buttoned himself up, and scrambled to his feet as to not keep Amami waiting.

Nothing. There was nothing. Yet he feared her silence more than he feared her fury.

“There you go.” Amami said, and had it been a trifle more energetic, it would have sounded like a cheer. He also rose to full height, tucking his hands back into his pockets. “Not so bad now, is it?”

“I feel like the epitome of fashion,” Shinguuji offered as a weak jest, feeling perhaps overly self-conscious of the way he might be coming off considering he was now fully dressed up as _Shirogane’s_ Shinguuji, so Akamatsu described, but such insecurities subsided as Amami’s features broke into an easy grin.

“Yeah, you’re a supermodel,” he said before he started walking backwards, hands gesturing for Shinguuji to follow. “Let’s go back, okay?”

Shinguuji nodded wordlessly, catching up to his stride with minimal effort. Amami swivelled around once he knew he was coming with him, and Shinguuji forcibly ignored the way his ankles ached as he walked – the pain slowly easing its way up his legs the further they went.

It would not do well to cause another scene, and he was so tired of being a burden. He could deal with a little more pain, it was fine. He was fine.

More importantly, where was _she_? She hadn’t spoken for a while, and her presence seemed so much weaker than it should have been. He had done as he was told, the jacket was hugging his body as it used to, tailor-fit, so where was she?

“Amami-kun,” he murmured, not sure if he actually wanted to be heard or not.

“Hm?” Amami turned to face him, and for a fleeting, terribly sensitive second, Shinguuji thought he saw a hint of annoyance flash across his face. He regretted speaking immediately and bit his tongue. After a confused moment of pause, Amami smiled, eyebrows lifting. “Yeah, what’s up? Did you want something?”

“Wh-who made this?” He asked, arms wrapping around himself in a defensive cradle. His head was starting to hurt, too. How dreadful. “Do you know?”

“You mean your uniform?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, that would have been Shirogane-san,” he answered, pointing skyward as though an image of Shirogane would appear above it. It didn’t. The smile on his face was well-practiced, Shinguuji could tell, but it was falsified all the same. “She’s a real seamstress, even without a cosplay talent. Her handiwork is pretty solid!”

Nothing. No objections. No memories. Not even the sound of her voice.

“... thank you for answering.”

“You got it. Are you feeling better now?”

 _No, I’ll never feel better, I feel like death and I feel like I’m always on the verge of falling apart and everything hurts but not in the right way,_ he teased the thought of admitting, but he knew that was terribly immature and inappropriate and ultimately, he knew better than to share these kinds of thoughts. He refused to let himself be so selfish.

“Considerably.” He said instead. It seemed to be an acceptable answer, because Amami didn’t press any further than that.

With easy strides, Amami began to lead him back towards the studio, and Shinguuji did not take his eyes off of him as he walked. An enigma, truly. There was no telling what was on Amami’s mind.

He rehearsed an apology in his head — _“sorry you have to deal with me, I wasn’t upset enough to warrant your care, apologies for the trouble, there is nothing to worry about, I apologize profusely for taking up your time, your space, your energy”_ — but not a word would leave his throat.

And he felt terribly, terribly guilty.

At the studio, he joined Gokuhara and Iruma by the sidelines and watched as Amami let out an apologetic laugh and a bow to the photographers, who simply ushered him towards Akamatsu already waiting for him on set. Shirogane was nowhere to be seen.

The two smiled amiably at each other, Akamatsu handing him the plush Monophanie she had been holding, and they exchanged a few quick words before being directed to their positions for the shoot.

Shinguuji had been content to just watch until his presence was required, but he soon grew aware of the impalpable tension rising around him, wherein Iruma suddenly took a very pointed step to the side, putting him between herself and Gokuhara.

He glanced at the quasi-entomologist, who was quite decisively ignoring him, or at least, seemed on edge about something beyond his current comprehension because he kept peering around the studio as if on the lookout for something.

Not wanting to aggravate him in this state, he slowly directed his gaze at Iruma, who was gritting her teeth together and twirling her hair aggressively around her finger.

“Shitguuji, who the fuck dressed you? You’re crumpled as shit, need to tell ‘em to slap an iron on ya next time,” Iruma called with an irritated huff, seeming to notice his look. Her tone rose sharp, then fell, as if she wasn’t quite sure what voice to be using with him. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re a total freak about that sort of thing.”

“Ah, my apologies… however,” Shinguuji averted his gaze. “That does not sound pleasant at all. I don’t believe I would particularly enjoy being ironed.”

She crossed her arms, all rolled eyes and bratty huffing. “Damn. Hit and miss, I guess.”

He glanced down at his uniform, a little self-consciously, tugging at the ends of his sleeves in an attempt to smooth out the creases.

“Please don’t misunderstand, Iruma-san, I still believe it would be a beautiful experience and a painful one, of course, however not one in which I would like to partake in, if my preferences were to be taken into account. You see, if one were to want to be branded, an iron wouldn’t be–”

“Cut the crap. What happened, anyway?” Iruma asked suddenly, cutting him off. “Not that I care, like, duh-doy, I don’t give a shit, I just– I mean,” her expression pinched a bit, “You disappear with Plain Jane and come back trailin’ Lettuce Head looking way roughed up… they beat you up or something? Didn’t think they had it in ‘em.”

He sputtered. “N– no?”

She shrugged, continuing nonchalantly, “Well, if they didn’t beat you up, then the only other possibility is that you couldn’t fight your raging hormones and had a hot, passionate threeway in the back or somethin’, but I have a feeling you’re not gonna admit–”

“Iruma-san!” he hissed, ignoring the heat of embarrassment creeping into his features as Gokuhara shot him a sympathetic look. He made sure to fix her with the harshest glower he could manage, after Ouma’s telltale giggle hinted to him listening in.

“What?” She asked with a growing grin, hand meeting hip. “Ohoho, did you _actually_ –”

“Please never speak again, before I tear out your vocal chords and make it happen myself.”

“E—eek! What the fuck, creepshow!?” She squeaked, flailing, before cowering with her hands above her head. Shinguuji’s glare didn’t let up. She scowled, still cowering and looking utterly miserable. “Jeebus, I’m sorry! I- I was just trying to lighten up the mood! Ugh! See if I ever try and comfort you again!”

“That was supposed to be comforting?” Gokuhara muttered to himself, and Shinguuji spared him a small, pained glance.

“– it’s like no-one appreciates my fuckin’ genius around here, my golden brain is wasted on you plebs! Wasted, I tell you! What, just ‘cause you can’t handle the heat, you start blamin’ and shamin’ me, left, right, centre, fuck all y’all,” Iruma was still rambling away, finally reaching a conclusion as she turned to Shinguuji and grumbled, “Anyway, Shitguuji, lemme fix your fuckin’ button at least? It’s pissin’ me off.”

“Fix my…” He got out, before her finger suddenly jabbed into his chest, making him cough violently. “Good heavens, Iruma-san, that was unnecessarily forceful– will you stop being so–”

“So what? Spit it out!” She snapped, pulling her hand back and raking her fingers through her hair again. “So fucked up, right?! I’m just tryna be nice and I keep making it worse, I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me! Just–” the anger left her voice almost as quick as it came. “Just let me help? Okay? I’m, you don’t have to like me or anything, I mean, I don’t know why you wouldn’t, I’m fucking awesome, but, please? Just shut the fuck up and let me help? I’ll leave you alone after that.”

He stared at her for an unfaltering second, searching her face for any hint of insincerity, but finding nothing. The blow to his sternum didn’t ache so much itself as cause the pain already lingering in his body to flare up, but he supposed there was no need to tell Iruma what she didn’t need to know.

“Alright,” he acquiesced with a sigh. “Do as you wish.”

Thus, obediently, he allowed her the requested action, trying not to look too wide-eyed as she snapped the loose button of his uniform into place. He wondered why she was bothering. They had never gotten along in the slightest.

“There.” She smacked him on the shoulder for good measure, making him jump. “Look smart. Not that you’d ever look smarter than me,” she added. “I’m the gorgeous girl genius, after all.”

“Iruma-san… pardon me asking, but why–”

“I told you, your button was pissin’ me off! Or is your head too far up your ass to hear me, you circlejerking slug-headed fuck?” Iruma snapped, rolling her shoulders back and straightening her spine. She had the same haughtiness he remembered, but sadder eyes.

Burning rage flickered restlessly just beneath the downturn of her lips and the furrow of her eyebrows, and despite his sensitivities, Shinguuji knew inherently that it wasn’t directed at him.

Shinguuji thought about the way she had always held herself up with a false confidence, how she died so ungracefully, how perhaps the straps that she wore were replacements for hands that would never hold her right.

He thought about how much he didn’t know about her that _Danganronpa_ took away from her, and how she was just keeping it together bracing for the years of distasteful jokes and ridicule that was sure to come.

Yes, they had never gotten along, but Shinguuji understood, in a way.

“Iruma just has a heart,” Akamatsu teased as she sauntered over towards them, sing-song, stumbling with laughter as Iruma shoved her back the direction she came.

“Like I give a flying fuck about any of you! ‘Specially you, cow tits!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Akamatsu said, still laughing, “You’re a heartless robot with no friends, I know, I know.”

Iruma shoved her again before storming off, only to be intercepted by Harukawa, who handed her the plush Monophanie from the photoshoot and started talking to her in a hushed, calm voice. Mind distant and thoughts whirling, Shinguuji only managed to observe this spectacle for a fleeting amount of time as Akamatsu’s loose grip on his shoulder brought him back into his own body.

“By the way, Shinguuji, you’re up since nobody can find Toujou.” She said, gesturing back with her head. Closer now, he could see the weariness under her eyes, and it was enough to tell him that she wasn’t nearly as tough as she was trying to be. Still, this Akamatsu wasn’t going to break here, and he knew that. Envied that. “Try not to get killed by Chabashira while you’re there, won’t you, doll?”

He nodded mutely, scurrying off to where he had been summoned.

* * *

Chabashira didn’t look at him once.

Angie watched as he approached, blue eyes piercing, but didn’t say a word.

The whole time he was manoeuvred around them he remained dispassionate and unfeeling. He feared that if he spoke or reacted to anything, he might disrupt this stagnant equilibrium, dropping a weight onto one side of a balance scale and watching the entire apparatus disassemble itself.

Sitting in the spotlight, he felt the worst he had ever been, but accepting of it all the same.

He was Shinguuji Korekiyo, with all the weight and burden and misfortune that came with the name, and he was going to have to learn to live with that.

He was going to have to grow with that.

(He didn’t want to.)

Breathe.

* * *

_For me._

_Kill her for me._

_Kill her for me._

_Kill them both for me._

_I’m lonely, Korekiyo._

_You’re not enough._

_Kill her for me._

* * *

With the first shoot over, Shinguuji felt his legs collapse beneath him, unable to support his weight any longer.

Quickly, his eyes darted around but there was thankfully too much _happening_ for anyone to notice. Even Shirogane, who was prime at keeping tabs on them all, was busy trying to pry something from Ouma’s hands, the former supreme leader sticking his tongue out at her childishly as Momota watched on, hands on his hips.

Gokuhara had hoisted Yumeno and Angie onto his back, swinging them around as they whooped excitedly, Chabashira chasing them with open arms, needling Gokuhara to be more careful with the girls.

Amami was squatting in the corner with Toujou, rubbing her back as she sobbed in fits into her gloves. Nearby, Harukawa was watching with hawk-like eyes, fingers running incessantly through her pigtails, clearly on edge. Hoshi was on his tablet, sitting cross-legged, beanie halfway over his eyes.

Saihara was strolling from scene to scene, trying to calm people down but getting overwhelmed by all the happenings and even more overwhelmed by the fact that Akamatsu kept walking past him every time he reached out to try and talk to her.

As for Shinguuji, he laid down on the floor curled up in his uniform jacket and thought about how easy it would be to give in. Mentally, he ran a log of everyone’s whereabouts as an attempt to distract himself from such thoughts, coming to realize that someone was still unaccounted for. Kiibo hadn’t made an appearance yet, of course, but where was–

“Yo, weirdo.” Iruma’s face suddenly entered his line of sight, and Shinguuji stiffened. Already she had changed back into her pajamas — pink flannel pants and a black tank top that read ASS in pink cursive — hair up in a messy ponytail. “You should at least find a bed if you wanna take a nap.” She said. “You’re gonna get moldier the longer you lie there. I’m all for down and dirty but this is just fuckin’ sad, ya feel?”

“Iruma-san.” Shinguuji said airily, eyes fluttering shut. “Why are you bothering?”

“Huh? Whaddaya mean? You should be grateful that I’m gracing you with my beautiful presence!”

He sighed, “What I meant was… we are not… well, my understanding is that we do not get along, quite frankly. I don’t understand why you are addressing me of all people, considering our less than favorable history.”

“Oh, well, I guess you ain’t wrong there,” She fiddled with her ponytail. “Uh, but hey, I- I don’t hate you, ya know!” She cast her gaze aside for a moment, shifty-eyed as ever. “Yeah, sure, you’re like a grade A fuckin’ weirdo and a- a major creep, b- but… but-” Her face contorted like she had bitten into a lemon. “Ugh, never mind, forget it. You wouldn’t care.”

Curiosity piqued, he opened his eyes again, raising an eyebrow at her, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’ll sound stupid,” she huffed.

“Mm, as does a majority of the things that come out of your mouth, I suppose.”

“Whatever, ya slimy bastard,” Iruma huffed, then plopped down onto the floor beside him as though it would give her a better insight into his mind. If that was her goal, anyway. Iruma had always been a wild card in that respect. “Yeah, this floor is hard as fuck. I really don’t see the appeal. Get it up, c’mon.”

“I don’t want to get up.” He told her tiredly.

“Why? ‘Cause they can’t knock you down when ya already down? Please,” Iruma laughed spitefully. It was a grating sound, as though her throat was full of grit and she was hacking it up. “They’ll always find a way. Lyin’ here ain’t gonna solve shit.”

“Then you can leave.”

“Yeah, gotta be real with ya, letting you wither and die alone here does sound like a pretty good idea.”

“While I don’t disagree, you are missing the point,” he said, words coming out in a gloomy, distant drawl. He was mildly dissociating, it seemed. How quaint. “I am explicitly offering you an opportunity to leave, Iruma-san. Just take it. I know you don’t want to be here, so spare yourself the inconvenie–”

“Look, nobody fuckin’ cared when we died!” She shrieked suddenly, and he flinched in surprise, clutching his chest. The words hung heavy in the air between them, but she didn’t take them back.

Stunned, all he could manage to say was, “P- pardon…?”

“Dammit, do I gotta spell it out for you? I’m here ‘cause nobody fuckin’ cared, alright?!” Her burst of anger dissolved into a grimace almost as quickly as it came, hurt seeping through the cracks in her voice. “Kinda sucks, yeah? Really fucking sucks. Like, shit,” and here, she dropped into an even thinner, broken tone, “When you and I died, it was like we didn’t even fuckin’ matter. Some people even said we deserved it. You- you know that, right?”

“Well,” Shinguuji murmured, “We hadn’t exactly been sympathetic.”

“Yeah, but… it really fucks with you.”

He briefly wondered if it was cold of him to simply shrug, so he turned to look at her. He found her staring back. Gingerly, he offered in meek response, “Doesn’t it all?”

“Doesn’t it all,” She smirked wryly, echoing the words. The dry amusement peeled from her face like old tape. “For me, seein’ Kiibo standin’ up for me, that was… damn. He cared. He actually cared. And I just kinda took that for granted, and ugh, I was so shit,” she groaned, running a hand through her unruly hair, gaze drifting to the side. “Like obviously he’s the only one who’s not here.”

“He’ll be here soon.” Shinguuji replied quietly. “His body merely requires a more extensive recuperation period, due to conditioning his mind to think like a robot. That is what I deduce, anyway.”

“Stop being smart, I’m the only one who’s allowed to be smart around here.”

“Hmm, implying that you possess any shred of intellect is pushing it.”

“Wow, you just keep fuckin’ with me today, don’t you?” She shoved at his shoulder. Despite her brashness, she seemed a little more at ease than before, so Shinguuji considered that a minor personal success in social adaptive skills – which, really, shouldn’t have been what he was focusing on, but it was miles better than what other thoughts could be manifesting, he supposed. “You’re such an asshole, Shinguuji.”

“Perhaps, then, a moment of self-reflection is in order,” he said, matter-of-factly. “For the both of us.”

“Oh, no, I’m an asshole by choice,” she replied, slowly stretching before sitting up again, yawning loudly. “Ain’t nothin’ stopping me. ‘Cept the fact that I am one tired bitch and you need to pull your shit together before Shitty Glasses comes over here to tear us a new one.”

“You are certainly stubbornly set in your ways.” He mused. “And that is a good point. I don’t suppose Shirogane-san would appreciate that I am on the floor.”

“Duh, so let’s get movin’!” She jabbed him in the stomach, cackling when he yelped. He had little time to think, she was already dragging him to his feet and pulling him along, but not without flashing Shirogane the middle finger when she looked their way.

Iruma was forceful as always, but for once, Shinguuji was grateful for it.

“Come on, ya shit-eating worm. I’m not gonna say it twice.”

* * *

“Knock, knock,” Akamatsu called before she invited herself in. It must have been the middle of the night or _something_ , because Shinguuji hadn’t felt like he had slept at all. “You awake, doll?”

He murmured something unintelligible into his pillow and heard her sigh.

“Alright, up, up, Shinguuji,” she goaded. He refused to move.

To his displeasure, her next move was to flick on the lights. Knowing there was no going back to sleep like this, he scrambled into somewhat of a seated position, shielding his eyes from the brightness. Akamatsu only seemed amused by his reaction.

“You don’t have to go through the whole morning routine, don’t worry, just make yourself presentable.” She said. Then she raised a hand, gesturing towards him. “Your mask came off, by the way. Sure it’s not uncomfortable sleeping like that? I’ve heard of eye masks for sleeping, but sick masks are a first.”

He could barely process the momentary panic that shot through him upon hearing that, his hands flying to his mouth as he frantically moved to cover it. For several long beats, he remained distraught and flustered, even with the _calm, Korekiyo, be calm_ that ran through his mind, but Akamatsu didn’t seem even slightly perturbed.

She simply waited for him to breathe again, then nonchalantly handed him his mask as though this were a common occurrence.

Her apathy, for once, was appreciated.

“Gee, overprotective much. I couldn’t care less what you choose to wear and what you don’t.”

“Sorry,” he said anyway, quickly pulling the mask back on. His lips felt stitched, as though the thought of someone laying their eyes on them was enough to have caused him dire harm, even though there was nothing of the sort.

An emotional effect, perhaps, but a rather irksome one.

“I said I don’t care,” Akamatsu told him with a mild shrug of her shoulders. “It’s not like it’s any of my business.”

He nodded mutely, not meeting her gaze.

“Weird though, if that means anything to you,” she mentioned offhandedly. “Seeing you without a mask is like… seeing Toujou with two eyes. Or Momota with his hair down. Or Hoshi without his hat. It’s been a week of those for me,” her hands crossed over her chest. “But you can totally not wear it, you know. I don’t think anyone really cares.”

“I do.” He replied.

“Yeah, well, you do you, I guess. Anyway, before we start diving into the sob story I didn’t ask for, I’ve got some news for you. Good or bad, your call,” she leaned her weight on her right leg, hand on her hips. “Robo-boy’s coming to join us, so you need to come down and say ‘hi’. Can you walk?”

* * *

“This is, um, sudden.” Saihara said, voicing the thought that must have persisted in all their heads at the announcement of Kiibo’s return. The room was evidently not prepared for it, with everyone in varying states of drowsiness and undress, clearly having just been roused from sleep.

“You can call me Iidabashi, or Kiibo is fine, I am not fussed over the semantics.” He said, nodding his head as he stood in the middle of the room, looking alert as ever. It was only a slight bit awkward. “I should probably tell you, since you might be curious. My full name is Iidabashi Kibou, but er, that’s a little embarrassing, to be honest… you can tell my parents were _Danganronpa_ fans immediately. There’s really no escaping it.”

Amami laughed, leaning over the back of the couch to playfully offer, “At least we could say they were hopeful for your future, yeah?”

Kiibo made an unimpressed noise, but couldn’t keep from blushing a little.

“Guess I can’t call you a useless pile of junk anymore,” Ouma sighed, dramatically falling against the back of his wheelchair before his lips curled into a cunning smirk. He bolted upright with little warning, slapping his knee with laughter. “But maaaan, that’s _hilarious_! I can’t believe your parents just straight up named you Kibou! What full-blown hope fanatics! You’re literally just called _hope_! That’s priceless! _Danganronpa_ to the end, huh? It was like you were made for this!”

“B-be quiet!” Kiibo exclaimed, indignant. “Even if it’s embarrassing, it is still my name and I will not allow you to slander it like this!”

“Well, I think it’s a beautiful name,” Saihara told him placatingly. Tiredly. “It’s very sweet.”

Kiibo blushed even more. “I hope for your sake that you meant that genuinely and not in a sarcastic manner. Otherwise—”

“What’re ya gonna do?” Ouma badgered, clearly having far too much fun with the situation at hand. “Sue him for hate speech? This is all just good, old-fashioned banter, Kiiboy, you know, human bonding and all that? Or was your brain so fried in that robot suit that you can’t tell anymore?”

“My brain is in tip top human condition!” He insisted. “Besides! It was not a robot suit! I was a genuine robot! A robot of average quality, sure, but a robot nonetheless!”

“Uh huh, you sure were,” Yumeno commented before Ouma could slip in another bout of teasing. “You like, printed paper outta your mouth and your eyes lit up and stuff. Weird.”

At the mention of those particular functions, Shinguuji’s hands twisted uneasily in his nightshirt, but fortunately, they were all too taken by Kiibo to notice. All except Yumeno, of course, who shot him a pointed look, ensuring their eyes met before she turned away.

“H- hey! It was not weird! I can’t help the way I was made!” Kiibo blustered and Momota snorted from the corner of the room.

“You’re a fucking delight, Kiibs,” he said. “You should’ve called in advance, though. We could’ve thrown a party.”

That spurred the conversation into a flurry of agreeing murmurs and protests and Kiibo hurriedly dismissing the idea in his growing embarrassment – the rest of the commotion lost on Shinguuji who wanted no part in it, head already spinning from all the noise. The pain in his legs was flaring up _again_ and though he was quite pleased that their ensemble was now complete, he wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep.

Attention flitting to the stairs, he saw Iruma standing there, partially hidden behind the wall.

It was only a partial strain to reach her, but she scowled when she saw him approach.

“What do you want, creepshow?”

“You were waiting for him, weren’t you?”

“So?”

“So,” Shinguuji said, loftily flicking his hand in Kiibo’s general direction. “Go to him. Cowering can only last so long. Soon enough, they’re going to think something is wrong and I presume that will be more trouble than you want to deal with.”

“Hate it when you make sense,” she grumbled. “Be more stupid, please.”

With a heavy sigh, she stepped out from behind the wall and started making her way over. Kiibo was in the midst of another squabble with Ouma as she approached, but seeing her seemed to bring the argument to a halt, Kiibo smiling gently as he said, “Iruma-san. I’m not a robot anymore. Are you disappointed?”

“Not even a little,” Iruma flung her arms around him and squeezed him tight. “I’m just so fuckin’ glad you’re here.”

“Uh-oh,” Ouma called. “The filthy bitch is drooling her smelly saliva onto you. That’s a sign you need to go back before you catch something.”

“Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering why we had to speed the process along,” Shirogane spoke up finally, steepling her fingers and taking the spotlight as she stepped up beside Kiibo and Iruma in the centre of the room. Kiibo opened his mouth to say something, but Iruma dragged him away from Shirogane, eyes filled with distrust. “And why we needed all 15 of– well, 16 of us, silly me, forgetting myself there – the merry 16 of us, all accounted for!”

“No-one cares,” Akamatsu drawled boredly.

“Well, I’m here to tell you!” She exclaimed, clapping her hands together excitedly and steamrolling quickly over the lacklustre response. “We’re introducing a fun new segment to add to the collector’s edition! It’s called…”

* * *

The Partner Program.

Shinguuji narrowed his eyes at the digital pamphlet, as if scrutinizing it any longer would make the words more intelligible. He could read it, certainly, but it didn’t make sense.

Weren’t all these things happening a little too fast? What was the meaning of this? Why were they being – being _forced_ to create so much content for V3? Didn’t the season just finish?

Seriously, what was the rush? He just wanted to go to sleep.

He wondered if that was the reason he felt so irritable, but promptly dismissed it so that he could continue channelling all his blame onto the pamphlet on his tablet, hoping that if he stared hard enough, it would set the device on fire and he would take two birds out with one stone.

“Hey, partner,” Gokuhara said, clapping him on the shoulder and making him jump.

“Hello.” He replied. “I suppose we’ll be getting more acquainted now, won’t we? Do you have any clue what this is for?”

“Not a single one,” was the unhelpful answer he received, the quasi-entomologist gesturing around the room. “But nobody seems to, so it’s okay, right?”

“Choo choo, Saihara-chan! Looks like we’re partners!” Ouma said, waving his arms around. “Lucky you! You’re gonna be my chair-push-around-er from now on!”

“Choo choo,” Saihara repeated, with a milder enthusiasm.

To their right, Harukawa and Momota stared at each other with mutual disgust.

“Fuck, of course it’s you,” Momota muttered.

“Don’t think I like this either,” Harukawa shot back.

Kiibo and Amami exchanged a quick high-five, as did Yumeno and Angie. Hoshi and Toujou didn’t spare the other a single look, simply sitting on the couch together, busying themselves with their tablets. Akamatsu and Iruma started elbowing each other, and Chabashira hovered tight-lipped beside Shirogane.

“So let me give a quick debrief–” Shirogane began to say, before she was rudely interrupted.

“Oh my god, shut up. This blows, and it’s way too fuckin’ early for your trashy ideas,” Iruma yawned, hooking an arm with her partner and tugging her to follow. “Let’s go, Bakamatsu. We can bond over shittalking this whole shebang.”

“Awesome,” Akamatsu said, showing no resistance.

“Hey! Wait!” Shirogane called after them, “I haven’t finished!”

Both girls flipped her off, but were stopped by Gokuhara extending an arm in front of them.

“For now,” Shinguuji heard Gokuhara whisper to them. “Just listen, alright? What if it’s important?”

Iruma shrunk behind Akamatsu, the former pianist regarding him with an empty smile, halting in her tracks and turning back around. “For you, Gonta. Only for you.”

“Can you please let me talk?” Shirogane asked. “Everyone? Please?”

The room reluctantly quieted.

“Thank you. For your cooperation, you now have ten free solo passes under the _Danganronpa_ care plan that you can use to book services for medical or recreational reasons, really, anything you like, we’re plain generous with our superstars,” Shirogane said, desperate to finish briefing them all on something that, quite frankly, none of them wanted. “So please make the most of the services offered to you! Between our scheduled events, we will be giving you back slots of free time, so use them wisely!”

All their tablets lit up in unison, displaying a notification that, when expanded, proudly presented a banner reading “Free Time Events (FTE) Unlocked”. When selected, the notification led to the calendar application, where “FTE” now glowed pink in hour-long slots that weren’t there before.

“Everything else will proceed as usual!” She continued. “As for the partner program, you will also have partner slots in your calendars now, so be sure not to flake on your partner when you’re expected to be together, okay?”

The slots appeared in green, with the heading “PST”, and two locations. Bringing the tablet closer to scrutinize, Shinguuji realized with a hint of dread that the second location was that of Gokuhara’s, depicted by the icon of a ladybug – meaning, should he have wanted to skip out on whatever it was that “PST” entailed, they would know exactly where to find him.

“We will endeavor to provide you with more information as you go along but first, please get to know your partner just a little better so that you can trust them with what is going to come. And remember, no switching partners unless special conditions are announced! We ran an audience vote on these and the vote doesn’t lie! Stick with the rankings, everybody! Don’t forget – _Danganronpa_ is your life!”


End file.
